UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


T»-'     Sook  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


OUTHERN  BR/BNCH 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

LIBRARY, 
••OS  ANOEtES,  «ALM^ 


THE   CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Ctjief  poets 


THE  CHIEF  AMERICAN  POETS.  Edited  by  Curtis 
Hidden  Page,  Ph.D.,  Professor  of  English,  Dartmouth 
College. 

THE  CHIEF  ELIZABETHAN  DRAMATISTS.  EX- 
CLUDING SHAKESPEARE.  Edited  by  William  Allan  Neil- 
son,  Ph.D.,  President  of  Smith  College. 

THE  CHIEF  MIDDLE  ENGLISH  POETS.  Newly 
rendered  and  edited  by  Jessie  L.  Weston,  Editor  of 
"  Romance,  Vision,  and  Satire." 

THE  CHIEF  BRITISH  POETS  OF  THE  FOUR- 
TEENTH .AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES.  Edited 
with  explanatory  and  biographical  notes  by  William 
Allan  Neilson,  Ph.D.,  President  of  Smith  College,  and 
K.  G.  T.  Webster,  Assistant  Professor  of  English,  Har- 
vard University. 


HOUGHTON  M1FFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON     NEW  YORK      CHICAGO 


THE 

CHIEF  AMERICAN  POETS 


BRYANT,  POE,  EMERSON,  LONGFELLOW 

WHITTIER,    HOLMES,   LOWELL 

WHITMAN  AND  LANIER 


EDITED,    WITH    NOTES,    REFERENCE    LISTS 
AND    BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 


CURTIS   HIDDEN  PAGE,   PH.  D. 

DARTMOUTH  COLLEGE 


BOSTON  NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

Cbe  KitoersHje  Press 


57848 


COPYRIGHT    IOOS    BY   CURTIS    HIDDEN   PAGE 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


TWENTY   NINTH    IMPRESSION 


***  All  rights  on  poems  in  this  work  are  reserved  by  the  holders  of  the  copy- 
right. The  publishers  and  others  named  in  the  subjoined  list  are  the  proprietors, 
either  in  their  own  right  or  as  agents  for  the  authors,  of  the  works  enumerated, 
and  of  which  the  ownership  is  thus  specifically  noted  and  hereby  acknowledged. 

D.  APPLETON  &  Co.,  New  York.  —  The  Poetical  Works  of  William  Cullen 
Bryant. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY,  Boston.  —  The  Poetical  Works  of  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  James  Russell 
Lowell,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNEIVS  Sous,  New  York.  —  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier. 

SMALL,  MAYNABD  &  Co.,  Boston.  —  Leaves  of  Grass,  by  Walt  Whitman. 


Tilt  &ibtr£it>e  iJrrsa 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IK  THE  U.  S.  A. 


PREFACE 

THIS  volume  is  in  no  sense  an  anthology.  Mr.  Stedman  has  collected,  with  complete 
knowledge  of  the  field,  and  with  all  but  unerring  taste  and  judgment,  the  choicest  '  flow- 
ers '  of  our  American  verse  from  more  than  six  hundred  poets.  His  American  Anthology 
must  remain  for  many  years  without  a  rival. 

'  Yet  still  the  man  is  greater  than  his  song.'  Many  true  lovers  of  literature  care  more 
for  a  few  poets  than  for  many  poems,  and  would  prefer  to  have  always  by  them  the  best 
work  of  our  few  chief  poets,  rather  than  the  few  best  poems  of  our  many  minor  singers. 
The  present  volume,  like  my  British  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  attempts  to  give,  for 
each  one  of  the  authors  included,  all  the  material  needed  to  show  his  development  and 
his  achievement,  and  to  give  a  first  knowledge  of  him  as  man  and  poet. 

The  selection  has  been  made  full  and  comprehensive.  No  poem  has  been  omitted  merely 
on  account  of  its  length,  and  every  poem,  even  the  longest,  is  given  in  full,  with  two 
exceptions  only:  Whitman's  'Song  of  Myself,' and  Lowell's  'Fable  for  Critics.'  The 
poems  of  each  author  are  arranged  in  chronological  order,  and  dated.  Wherever  possible, 
both  the  date  of  writing  and  that  of  first  publication  have  been  given. 

The  brief  '  Biographical  Sketches '  at  the  end  of  the  volume  are  designed  only  to  give 
an  easily  accessible  summary  of  the  author's  life,  especially  as  related  to  his  poetical 
work.  They  make  no  pretence  of  absolute  completeness,  or  of  presenting  new  facts  based 
on  original  investigation  ;  nor  do  they  attempt  any  critical  estimate  of  the  poet's  work, 
except  in  a  paragraph  or  two  of  brief  summary  at  the  end  of  each. 

In  the  reference  lists,  however,  I  have  tried  to  furnish  full  material  for  a  complete 
and  thorough  study  of  each  author.  Under  the  heading  Editions  in  each  list  are  named 
(1)  the  standard  library  editions  of  the  author's  complete  works  ;  (2)  the  best  library 
editions  of  his  poetical  works  alone  ;  (3)  the  best  one- volume  editions  of  his  poems; 
and  (4)  in  some  cases,  the  best  books  of  selections  from  his  work.  Under  the  heading 
Biography  and  Reminiscences  are  named  in  -the  first  paragraph  the  most  important 
biographies  of  the  poet,  and  in  the  second  paragraph  other  books  or  essays  dealing  chiefly 
with  his  life  and  personality.  There  follow  sections  devoted  to  Criticism  and  to  Tributes 
in  Verse.  In  this  mass  of  material,  I  have  indicated  throughout  the  books,  essays,  or  edi- 
tions which  seemed  to  me  of  most  importance,  and  have  added  a  brief  word  of  comment 
where  it  seemed  desirable.  I  have  not  tried  to  give  in  these  reference  lists  a  complete 
bibliography  of  all  that  has  been  written  on  each  author,  and  have  omitted  many  titles 
which  seemed  to  be  of  little  or  no  importance.  But  I  have  wished  to  name  everything 
that  could  be  of  value,  and  preferred  to  err  on  the  side  of  inclusion  rather  than  of  omis- 
sion. It  is  probable,  however,  that  some  essential  references  may  have  been  overlooked, 
and  it  is  hardly  possible  that  in  giving  so  many  titles  and  dates,  all  errors  should  have 
been  avoided.  I  shall  be  grateful  for  any  corrections  or  important  additions. 

In  the  notes,  I  have  planned  to  give  only  essential  facts  about  the  origin  or  circum- 
stances of  composition  of  each  poem,  and  to  show  its  connection  with  the  author's  life,  or 
with  his  other  works.  Critical  comment  has  been  excluded,  except,  in  a  few  cases,  that 
of  the  author  himself  or  of  contemporary  poets.  In  the  case  of  two  poets,  Emerson  and 
Whitman,  it  has  seemed  worth  while  to  give  from  their  prose  a  good  many  passages  which 
illustrate  the  ideas  of  the  poems,  while  the  poems  illuminate  the  ideas  of  the  prose. 


vi  PREFACE 

The  dates  in  italic  figures,  at  the  left,  give  the  date  of  writing;  those  in  Roman,  at  the 
right,  the  date  of  publication.  To  make  these  dates  as  accurate  as  possible  has  involved, 
in  most  cases,  not  only  a  thorough  study  of  the  biographies  of  the  poets,  but  also  a  great 
deal  of  research  among  the  files  of  periodicals  to  which  they  may  have  contributed.  In  a 
few  cases,  where  I  have  felt  that  a  poem  had  perhaps  been  published  in  a  periodical  before 
the  year  of  its  appearance  in  a  volume,  but  have  not  been  able  to  trace  it,  I  have  indicated 
this  by  placing  hi  parentheses  the  date  of  first  publication  in  book  form. 

In  making  the  selections  I  have  tried  to  follow  not  so  much  my  individual  taste  as  the 
consensus  of  opinion,  now  pretty  well  formed,  as  to  which  poems  of  our  elder  authors  are 
the  best  and  most  representative.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  acknowledge  the  ready  generosity 
with  which  so  many  critics  and  teachers  have  given  me  the  help  of  their  advice  and  have 
put  their  special  knowledge  at  my  service.  I  have  to  thank,  in  the  first  place,  Professor 
Charles  F.  Richardson  of  Dartmouth,  and  Professors  W.  P.  Trent  and  Brander  Matthews 
of  Columbia,  —  three  of  the  chief  historians  of  American  literature;  and  next  Professor 
George  R.  Carpenter  of  Columbia,  who  has  written  the  best  biographies  we  have  of  more 
than  one  of  our  chief  poets.  The  present  volume  was  first  thought  of  as  a  companion  to  Pro- 
fessor Carpenter's  American  Prose;  and  while  I  have  departed  considerably  from  the  plan 
and  method  of  that  book,  I  have  had  throughout  Professor  Carpenter's  generous  approval 
and  cooperation.  I  am  also  under  special  obligation  to  Mr.  W.  R.  Thayer,  to  whose  sure 
taste  and  thorough  knowledge  of  our  poets  I  have  often  appealed;  to  Mr.  Ferris  Greenslet, 
who  has  helped  me  with  the  selections  and  the  reference-list  for  Lowell;  and  to  Mr. 
Laurens  Maynard,  who  has  put  at  my  service  his  remarkable  collection  of  Whitman  books, 
and  given  freely  of  his  time  and  knowledge  in  helping  me  to  trace  each  poem  of  Whit- 
man to  its  earliest  publication,  and  to  compare  its  text  with  that  of  the  original  edition. 

I  gladly  take  this  opportunity  to  thank  also  Professor  Charles  W.  Kent,  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia,  whose  edition  of  Poe's  poems  in  the  Virginia  Edition  of  the  Complete 
Works  is  invaluable,  and  who  has  also  generously  given  his  personal  help;  Professor 
Edwin  Mims,  of  Trinity  College;  Professors  W.  L.  Phelps,  F.  C.  Prescott,  A.  H.  Quimi, 
Henry  N.  Snyder,  Charles  L.  Young,  W.  C.  Thayer,  G.  Herbert  Clarke,  Richard  Jones, 
J.  H.  Chamberlin,  William  B.  Cairns,  A.  B.  Milford,  Frank  C.  Lockwood,  Arthur  P. 
Hall,  Enoch  Perrine,  Vernon  P.  Squires,  and  Benjamin  Sledd;  Mr.  Clyde  Furst,  of 
Columbia;  Miss  Jeannette  Marks,  of  Mount  Holyoke;  Miss  Lucy  Tappan,  the  author  of 
an  excellent  manual,  Topical  Notes  on  American  Authors;  and  others  who  have  kindly 
made  suggestions  or  gone  over  my  lists  of  selections.  I  wish  also  to  thank  the  authorities 
of  the  Columbia,  Harvard,  and  Cornell  libraries,  especially  Mr.  T.  J.  Kiernan,  who  have 
shown  me  many  courtesies;  and  others  without  whose  help  the  volume  could  not  have  been 
begun  or  completed. 

For  the  use  of  copyrighted  material,  I  am  under  obligation  to  Dr.  Edward  W.  Emerson ; 
Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.;  Messrs.  Harper  Sr-  Bros.;  Mrs.  Sidney  Lanier,  and  Messrs. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons;  Mr.  Horace  Traubel  and  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Harned,  the  literary 
executors  of  Whitman,  and  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.,  his  authorized  publishers;  and 
of  course,  most  of  all,  to  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  without  whose  cooperation  no 
book  of  selections  from  the  chief  American  poets  could  be  undertaken. 

CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE. 
COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY,  NBW  YORK  CITY. 

October  1,  1905. 


TABLE    OF   CONTENTS 


BRYANT 

PAGE 

43 

THANATOPSIS    
THE  YELLOW  VIOLET        . 
INSCRIPTION   FOR   THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A 
WOOD           ...              . 

1 

2 

3 

THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST  . 
THE  COLISEUM         .... 
HYMN    
To  ONE  IN  PARADISE 
To  F  

.    44 
45 

.    45 
45 
.    46 

GREEN  RIVER       

4 
5 

SONNET  TO  ZANTE      .... 

.    46 

HYMN  TO  DEATH          . 

7 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE  . 

46 

47 

MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN        . 
AUTUMN  WOODS      

9 
11 
12 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM 
DREAM-LAND       
THE  RAVEN     

47 
.    48 
48 

JUNE          

14 

EULALIE  —  A  SONG    .... 

.      51 
51 

THE  PAST  

15 

To  HELEN    
THE  BELLS 

.    52 
53 

55 

FOR  ANNIE 

55 

SONG  OF  AIARION'S  MEN 

17 

ANNABEL  LEE     

.    56 

57 

THE  BATTLE-FIELD         .... 
THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM  . 
'  0  MOTHER  OF  A  MIGHTY  RACE  ' 
THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE 
ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN       .... 

20 
20 
21 

22 
23 

EMERSON 
GOOD-BYE      

.    58 

OUR  COUNTRY'S  CALL        . 

24 

24 

THOUGHT  
THE  RIVER 

58 
58 

THE  POET    
MY  AUTUMN  WALK        .... 
THE  DEATH  OF  LINCOLN  . 
A  LIFETIME       
THE  FLOOD  OF  YEARS       . 

POE 

29 
30 
31 
31 
33 

LINES  TO  ELLEN      .... 
To  ELLEN  AT  THE  SOUTH 
To  ELLEN         
THINE  EYES  STILL  SHINED 
WRITTEN  IN  NAPLES 
WRITTEN  AT  ROME    .... 
WEBSTER          
THE  RHODORA 

59 
.    59 
59 
.    60 
60 
.    60 
61 
.    61 

TAMERLANE 

36 

EACH  AND  ALL         .        .        .        . 

61 
.    62 

TO  ('  I       SAW      THEE       ON       THY 

39 

CONCORD  HYMN       .... 

63 
63 

SONG  FROM  AL  AARAAF 

39 
40 

URIEL        

64 
64 

SONNET  —  To  SCIENCE    .... 
To  ('THE     BOWERS     WHEREAT,    IN 

DREAMS,    I   SEE  ') 

40 
41 

WRITTEN  IN  A  VOLUME  OF  GOETHE 
WOODNOTES  I      

65 
.    66 
67 

TO  ('  I  HEED  NOT    THAT   MY   EARTHLY 

LOT  ') 

41 

THE  SPHINX         

.     71 
72 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM     . 
To  HELEN 

41 
41 

FABLE  

.    73 
73 

41 

73 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA 

42 

73 

THE  SLEEPER 

43 

.    73 

1  The  poems   of  each  author  are  arranged  in  chronological  order.   Exact  dates  will  be  found  at  the  end  of 
each  poem. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


SAADI         

74 
76 

rTHE  BRIDGE     

lilt 

1"0 

NATURE     ....... 

77 

^3PHE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG 

T'l) 

77 

I'M 

THRENODY        ...... 

77 

pjBvANGELINE 

1°1 

To  J   W 

80 

14't 

ODE,  INSCRIBED  TO  W.  H.  CHANNING  . 
MERLIN         
THE  WORLD-SOUL 

80 

81 

THE  BUILDERS  U*    
RESIGNATION       
CHILDREN 

1-4!) 
14<> 
1  5(  i 

HAMATREYA         
FORERUNNERS          
GIVE  ALL  TO  LOVE     ..... 
THE  DAY'S  RATION         .... 
MEROPS                ...... 

83 
84 
85 
85 
86 

GASPAR  BECERRA        
THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP 
THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE     . 
DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT    . 
THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS 

15(1 
151 
155 

15<> 

ir>i; 

MUSKETAQUID  
NATURE 

86 
87 

THE  Two  ANGELS  
I^HE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA 

in- 

V"iS 

DAYS          
Two  RIVERS                        .... 

87 
87 

MY  LOST  YOUTH     

210 
'Ml 

BRAHMA    
ODE,  SUNG  IN  THE  TOWN  HALL,  CONCORD, 
JULY  4,  1857      
SEASHORE          
WALDEINSAMKEIT       
FRAGMENTS  ON  NATURE  AND  LIFE 
FRAGMENTS    ON    THE    POET    AND    THE 
POETIC  GIFT      .        . 

88 

88 
89 
90 
90 

92 
94 

DAYBREAK        
SANTA  FILOMENA        
THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH  . 
THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR     . 
PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE     .... 
THE  CUMBERLAND      .        .        •  y  - 
THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH  /K 
WEARINESS  

212 
212 
213 
232 
23:; 
235 

235 
2:«i 

>>•)<) 

THE  BOHEMIAN  HYMN       .... 
PAN    .        .        '        
THE  ENCHANTER                                        k 
EROS          
Music   .... 

96 
96 
96 
96 
96 

DlVINA   COMMEDIA        

KILLED  AT  THE  FORD     .... 
GIOTTO'S  TOWER         .        . 
FINALE  OF  CHRISTUS       .... 

240 
241 
242 
242 

'M3 

THE  TITMOUSE         

96 

CHAUCER  ....... 

•'41 

98 

•>n 

VOLUNTARIES           ..... 

99 

MILTON      ....... 

'')i; 

100 

KEATS 

"Hi 

TERMINUS         .... 

101 

"Hi 

LONGFELLOW 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY     .... 
BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK   . 
.THE  RETURN  OF  SPRING  .... 
/ART  AND  NATURE  

102 
103 
103 
104 
104 

THREE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE 
MORITURI  SALUTAMUS     .... 
THE  HERONS  OF  ELMWOOD 
IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  TARRYTOWN 
THE  POETS  
NATURE     
VENICE         
VICTOR  AND  VANQUISHED 
THE  THREE  SILENCES  OF  MOLINOS 

24  ti 

24  S 
251 
252 
252 
252 
253 
253 
253 

THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS     .... 
HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT         .... 
FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS   .... 
/THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY  .... 
/THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS    . 
^THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 
THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR     . 

104 
105 
105 
1C6 
107 
108 
108 

WAPENTAKE     
A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH  FLEET  . 
SONG  :  '  STAY,  STAY  AT  HOME,  MY  HEART, 
AND  REST'      
FROM  MY  ARM-CHAIR         . 
ROBERT  BURNS        
THE  TIDE  RISES,  THE  TIDE  FALLS 

253 
254 

255 
255 
251  i 
25H 

"5<  i 

DENT)          
ENDYMION         
THE  RAINY  DAY 

111 
111 
111 

THE  CROSS  OF  SNOW         . 
NIGHT        
L'ENVOI  :  THE  POET  AND  HIS  SONGS 

257 
257 

"57 

11° 

257 

t/ExCELSIOR     

MEZZO  CAMMIN        
THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM         . 
THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD   . 

112 
113 
113 
114 
115 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  BLAS         . 
WHITTIER 

25S 

NUREMBERG         
THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  :  CARILLON  . 
DANTE  

116 
116 
118 
118 

THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER    .... 
To  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON    . 
RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE    .... 
EXPOSTULATION        

259 
'_><50 
200 

262 

TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


THE  FAREWELL  OF  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE- 
MOTHER      263 

THE  MERRIMAC -'<>4 

MKMORIES    .......  265 

HAMPTON  BEACH 266 

CASSANDRA  SOUTH  WICK  ....  267 
MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA  .  .  270 
THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE  ....  272 

THE  SHOEMAKERS 273 

THE  PINE  TREE 275 

FORGIVENESS    ......      275 

BARCLAY  OF  URY 275 

THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA  .  .  277 
THE  HUSKERS  .  .  .  .-  .  .278 

THE  CORN  SONG 280 

PROEM 280 

THE  LAKESIDE 281 

OUR  STATE 281 

ICHABOD 282 

SONGS  OF  LABOR,  DEDICATION  .  .  .  282 
WORDSWORTH  .  .  •  .  .  .  .283 

BENEDICITE 283 

APRIL 284 

ASTR^A 285 

FIRST-DAY  THOUGHTS  ....  285 
THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELECTION  DAY  .  285 
SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE  .  .  .  286 

BURNS 287 

MAUD  MULLER 289 

THE  RENDITION 290 

ARISEN  AT  LAST 291 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 291 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN  .  .  .  292 
SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE  ....  296 
THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN  .  .  297 
THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW  ....  299 
TELLING  THE  BEES  ....  300 

THE  CABLE  HYMN 301 

MY  PSALM 301 

BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE  ....  302 

MY  PLAYMATE 303 

To  WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD  .        .        .        .  303 

OUR  RIVER 304 

AMY  WENTWORTH 304 

THE  WAITING 305 

THE  WATCHERS, 306 

ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER  .  .  307 
BARBARA  FRIETCHIE  .  ...  309 

THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH       .        .      310 

THE  VANISHERS 311 

BRYANT  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY    .        .        .312 

LAUS  DEO  ! 312 

HYMN 313 

THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS  ....  314 

SNOW-BOUND 315 

ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT       ....  323 

THE  DEAD  SHIP  OF  HARPSWELL  .        .      324 
OUR  MASTER       ......  325 

THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE    ...      327 

THE  MEETING 327 

AMONG  THE  HILLS 330 

MARGUERITE 336 

IN  SCHOOL-DAYS 337 

MY  TRIUMPH 337 

MY  BIRTHDAY 338 

THE  SISTERS 339 

THE  THREE  BELLS 340 


CONDUCTOR  BRADLEY     . 

A  MYSTERY          .... 

THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSI/ 

A  SEA  DREAM     .... 

SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP    . 

LEXINGTON 

CENTENNIAL  HYMN 

THE  PROBLEM     .... 

RESPONSE         -. 

AT  EVENTIDE       .... 

THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS 

OUR  AUTOCRAT   .... 

GARRISON 

THE  LOST  OCCASION  . 
STORM  ON  LAKE  ASQUAM 
THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN 
AN  AUTOGRAPH 

UNITY 

SWEET  FERN    .... 
SAMUEL  J.  TILDEN     . 
THE  BARTHOLDI  STATUE 

To  E.  C.  S 

THE  LAST  EVE  OF  SUMMER  . 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  . 
To  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


340 
.  341 

342 
.  343 

344 
.  345 

346 
.  346 

346* 
.  347 

347 
.  347 

348 
.  348 

349 
.  350 

350 
.  351 

351 
.  352 

352 
.  352 

353 
.  353 


HOLMES 

OLD  IRONSIDES 355 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN  .  355 
THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  RIDICULOUS  .  .  356 
To  AN  INSECT 356 

L'lNCONNUE 357 

MY  AUNT          .        .        .        .        .        .357 

THE  LAST  LEAF 358 

LA  GRISETTE 358 

OUR  YANKEE  GIRLS 359 

ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL  .  .  359 
THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG  .  .  .  .360 
THE  STATESMAN'S  SECRET  .  .  .  362 
AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  WORDSWORTH  .  363 
AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY  .  .  364 

THE  HUDSON 365 

To  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND  ....  365 
THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS  .  .  .366 

BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER  .  .  366 
FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BURNS  CLUB  .  367 
LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS  ...  368 
THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS  .  .  .368 
THE  LIVING  TEMPLE  ....  369 
THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE,  OR,  THE 

WONDERFUL  '  ONE-HOSS  SHAY  '     .  369 

CONTENTMENT 371 

PARSON  TUBELL'S  LEGACY        .        .        .  372 
THE  VOICELESS        ...       i        .      373 
FOR  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRA- 
TION     374 

THE  BOYS 374 

AT  A  MEETING  OF  FRIENDS  .  .  .  375 
THE  Two  STREAMS  .  .  .  .376 
UNDER  THE  VIOLETS  ....  377 

HYMN  OF  TRUST 377 

A  SUN-DAY  HYMN 377 

PROLOGUE  TO  '  SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS  '  .  378 
BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  FOR 

SISTER  CAROLINE      .  .        .  378 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


PARTING  HYMN 379 

UNION  AND  LIBERTY  ....  379 
J.  D.  R.  .  .  .  '  .  .  .  380 

To  MY  READERS 380 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION  .  381 
BRYANT'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  .  .  382 

MY  ANNUAL 383 

ALL  HERE 384 

•BILL  AND  JOE 385 

NEAHING  THE  SNOW-LINE      .        .        .      386 

DOROTHY  Q 386 

EPILOGUE    TO    THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 

SERIES 387 

PROGRAMME 388 

GRANDMOTHER'S    STORY    OF    BUNKER- 
HILL  BATTLE         ....      389 
How  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON  THE  BET     .  392 
FOR  WHITTIER'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  394 

VERITAS 396 

THE  SILENT  MELODY      ....      396 

THE  IRON  GATE 397 

THE  SHADOWS 398 

AT  THE  SATURDAY  CLUB  .  .  .  399 
THE  GIRDLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  .  .  402 
To  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  .  .  .402 
THE  LYRE  OF  ANACREON  .  .  .  403 
AFTER  THE  CURFEW  ....  404 

LA  MAISON  D'OR 404 

Too  YOUNG  FOR  LOVE       ....  404 
THE  BROOMSTICK  TRAIN  ;  OR,  THE   RE- 
TURN OF  THE  WITCHES  .        .        .  405 

INVITA  MINERVA 407 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL,  1819-1891         .  407 
IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHIT- 
TIER     .  .  408 


LOWELL 

'FOR  THIS  TRUE    NOBLENESS    I    SEEK    IN 

VAIN  ' 410 

MY  LOVE 410 

'  MY  LOVE,  I  HAVE  NO  FEAR  THAT  THOU 

SHOULDST  DIE  '         ....  411 
'  I  ASK  NOT  FOR  THOSE  THOUGHTS,  THAT 

SUDDEN  LEAP  '  .       .       .411 

'  GREAT  TRUTHS  ARE   PORTIONS  OF  THE 

SOUL  OF  MAN  '  .  411 

To  THE  SPIRIT  OF  KEATS  .  .  .411 
'OUR  LOVE  IS  NOT  A  FADING  EABTHLY 

FLOWER' 412 

'  BELOVED,  IN  THE  NOISY  CITY  HERE  '       412 
SONG  :   4  O   MOONLIGHT  DEEP  AND  TEN- 
DER ' 412 

THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADMETUS  .  412 
AN  INCIDENT  IN  A  RAILROAD  CAR  .  .  413 
STANZAS  ON  FREEDOM  ....  414 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS 414 

RHOSCUS 415 

To  THE  DANDELION 417 

COLUMBUS 418 

THE  PRESENT  CRISIS         .        .        .        .421 

A  CONTRAST 423 

AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE  .        .        .424 

HEBE 428 

THE  CHANGELING 429 

SHE  CAME  AND  WENT     ....      429 


4  I  THOUGHT  OUR  LOVE  AT  FULL,  BUT  I 

DID  ERR' 430 

THE  BIG  LOW  PAPERS,  FIRST  SERIES: 
A  LETTER  FROM  MR.  EZEKIEL  BIG- 
LOW  OF    JAALAM    TO   THE    HON. 
JOSEPH  T.  BUCKINGHAM      .        .      430 
WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS    .        .  433 
THE  Pious  EDITOR'S  CREED  .        .      435 
A  SECOND  LETTER  FROM  B.  SAWIN, 

ESQ 436 

FROM  '  A  FABLE  FOR  CRITICS  '  .  .  440 
THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  .  .  .  453 
BEAVER  BROOK 458 

BlBLIOLATRES 458 

THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL  ....  459 
THE  SINGING  LEAVES  .  .  .  .459 
WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN  ....  461 

AUF   WlEDERSEHEN      .....   461 

PALINODE 462 

THE  WIND-HARP 462 

AFTER  THE  BURIAL  ....  463 
L'ENVOI  :  To  THE  MUSE  .  .  .  .463 

MASACCIO 465 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  DIDACTIC  POETRY  .        .  465 

THE  DEAD  HOUSE 466 

AT  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  .  .  .  467 
THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD  .  .  469 
THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS,  SECOND  SERIES: 

THE  COURTIN' 472 

MASON  AND  SLIDELL        .        .        .      473 
JONATHAN  TO  JOHN          .        .        .  478 
SUNTHIN'  IN  THE  PASTORAL  LINE       480 
LATEST  VIEWS  OF  MR.  BIGLOW  484 

MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW  .TO  THE  EDITOR 

OF  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  486 

ON  BOARD  THE  '76         ....      489 

ODE     RECITED    AT     THE     HARVARD     COM- 

MEMORATION 490 

THE  MINER 496 

To  H.  W.  L 496 

THE  NIGHTINGALE  IN  THE  STUDY       .      497 

AN  EMBER  PICTURE 498 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT 498 

FOR  AN  AUTOGRAPH 499 

THE  FOOT-PATH 499 

ALADDIN 500 

To  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON'        .        .      500 

AGASSIZ 501 

SONNET  —  SCOTTISH  BORDER  .  .  508 
THREE  MEMORIAL  POEMS  : 

ODE  READ  AT  THE  ONE  HUNDREDTH 
ANNIVERSARY   OF  THE   FIGHT  AT 
CONCORD  BRIDGE     ....  509 
UNDER  THE  OLD  ELM      .        .        .      512 
AN  ODE  FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY  518 
DEATH  OF  QUEEN  MERCEDES  .        .        .  522 

PH03BE 522 

To  WHITTIER,  ON   HIS   SEVENTY-FIFTH 

BIRTHDAY 523 

To    HOLMES,    ON    HIS    SEVENTY-FIFTH 

BIRTHDAY 523 

INTERNATIONAL  COPYRIGHT  .  .  .  524 
SIXTY-EIGHTH  BlRTHDAY  .  .  .  524 
INSCRIPTION  PROPOSED  FOR  A  SOLDIERS' 

AND  SAILORS'  MONUMENT    .        .      524 

ENDYMION 524 

AUSPEX 527 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


xi 


THE  PREGNANT  COMMENT 

TELEPATHY 

THE  SECRET 

MONK  A  LISA 

THE  NOBLER  LOVER 


.  528 
528 
528 
528 

.  528 


'  FRANCISCUS  DE  VERULAMIO  sic  COGITA- 

529 

.  529 
530 

.  530 


VIT  '  .  .  .  . 

IN  A  COPY  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 
TURNER'S  OLD  TEMKRAIRE  . 
ON  A  BUST  OF  GENERAL  GRANT 


WHITMAN 

THERE  WAS  A  CHILD  WENT  FORTH  . 
FROM  THE  'SONG  OF  MYSELF'     . 
SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD 

MIRACLES  

ASSURANCES 

CROSSING  BROOKLYN  FERRY 

OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE  ENDLESSLY  ROCKING 

FACING      WEST      FROM       CALIFORNIA'S 


I  HEAR  AMERICA  SINGING 

POETS  TO  COME 

ME  IMPERTURBE 

FOR  YOU  O  DEMOCRACY 

RECORDERS  AGES  HENCE  . 

WHEN  I  HEARD  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE 

DAY 

I  SAW  IN  LOUISIANA  A  LIVE-OAK  GROWING 

I   HEAR  IT    WAS   CHARGED  AGAINST  ME      . 
THE  PRAIRIE-GRASS  DIVIDING 

WHEN  I  PERUSE  THE  CONQUER'D  FAME 

I  DREAM'D  IN  A  DREAM     . 

FULL  OF  LIFE  NOW          .... 

TO  ONE  SHORTLY  TO  DIE 

NIGHT  ON  THE  PRAIRIES 

0  MAGNET-SOUTH 

MANNAHATTA   

MYSELF  AND  MINE      . 

A  BROADWAY  PAGEANT        .   '    . 

PIONEERS !  O  PIONEERS !   . 

FROM  PAUMANOK  STARTING  i  FLY  LIKE 

A  BIRD 

EIGHTEEN  SIXTY-ONE        . 
BEAT  !  BEAT  !  DRUMS  !   . 
CAVALRY  CROSSING  A  FORD 
BIVOUAC  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  SIDE    . 
BY  THE  BIVOUAC'S  FITFUL  FLAME  . 

1  SAW  OLD  GENERAL  AT  BAY 

VlGIL  STRANGE  I  KEPT  ON  .  THE  FIELD- 
ONE  NIGHT 

COME   UP  FROM  THE  FIELDS,    FATHER    . 

A  SIGHT  IN  CAMP  IN  .  THE  DAYBREAK 
GRAY  AND  DIM  .  ... 

As    TOILSOME   I   WANDER'D   VIRGINIA'S 

WOODS     

THE  WOUND-DRESSER       . 

GlVE  ME  THE  SPLENDID  SILENT  SUN   . 

LONG,  TOO  LONG  AMERICA 

OVER  THE  CARNAGE  ROSE  PROPHETIC  A 

VOICE 
OUT  OF  THE   ROLLING  OCEAN   THE   CROWD 

WHEN  I  HEARD  THE  LEARN'D  ASTRONO- 
MER   

SHUT  NOT  YOUR  DOORS  .... 


TO  A  CERTAIN  CIVILIAN    ....  579 

QUICKSAND  YEARS 580 

OTHERS  MAY  PRAISE  WHAT  THEY  LIKE  .  580 
THICK-SPRINKLED  BUNTING  .  .  .  580 
BATHED  IN  WAR'S  PERFUME  .  .  .  581 
0  CAPTAIN  !  MY  CAPTAIN  !  .  .  .  581 
WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOOR-YARD 

BLOOM'D 581 

HUSH'D  BE  THE  CAMPS  TO-DAY     .       .      585 

OLD  WAR-DREAMS 58(5 

RECONCILIATION       .  •     .        .        .        .      586 

As  I   LAY   WITH   MY   HEAD   IN   YOUR    LAP, 

CAMERADO 586 

ABOARD  AT  A  SHIP'S  HELM    .        .        .      586 

NOT  THE  PILOT 587 

ONE'S-SELF  I  SING 587 

TEARS 587 

WHISPERS  OF  HEAVENLY  DEATH  .  588 
THE  SINGER  IN  THE  PRISON  .  .  .  588 
ETHIOPIA  SALUTING  THE  COLORS  .  .  589 
DELICATE  CLUSTER  .  .  .  .  .  589 
THE  BASE  OF  ALL  METAPHYSICS  .  .  589 
ON  THE  BEACH  AT  NIGHT  .  .  .  590 
A  NOISELESS  PATIENT  SPIDER  .  .  590 

PASSAGE  TO  INDIA 590 

DAREST  THOU  NOW  0  SOUL  .  .  .  595 
THE  LAST  INVOCATION  ....  595 
JOY,  SHIPMATE,  JOY  !  596 

0  STAR  OF  FRANCE 596 

THE  MYSTIC  TRUMPETER       .        .        .      596 
VIRGINIA  — THE  WEST      .        .        .        .598 

THOU  MOTHER  WITH  THY  EQUAL  BROOD  598 
PRAYER  OF  COLUMBUS       ....  601 

COME,  SAID  MY  SOUL       ....      602 

WHEN  THE  FULL-GROWN  POET  CAME      .  603 
To  THE  MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD   .        .        .603 
THE  OX-TAMER  .        .        .        .        .        .603 

To  A  LOCOMOTIVE  IN  WINTER      .        .      604 
AFTER  AN  INTERVAL         ....  604 

To  FOREIGN  LANDS        ....      604 

WHAT  BEST  I  SEE  IN  THEE  .  .  .  605 
SPIRIT  THAT  FORM'D  THIS  SCENE  .  605 
YOUTH,  DAY,  OLD  AGE  AND  NIGHT  .  606 
A  CLEAR  MIDNIGHT  ....  606 

WlTH  HUSKY-HAUGHTY  LIPS,  0  SEA  .  606 
OF  THAT  BLITHE  THROAT  OF  THINE  .  606 

As  THE  GREEK'S  SIGNAL  FLAME       .        .  607 

TO    THOSE   WHO  'VE   FAII/D       .  .  .         607 

A  CAROL  CLOSING  SIXTY-NINE  .  .  607 
THE  FIRST  DANDELION  .  .  .  .607 
THE  VOICE  OF  THE  RAIN  .  .  .607 
A  PRAIRIE  SUNSET  ....  608 
THANKS  IK  OLD  AGE  ....  608 

MY  71  ST  YEAR 608 

OLD  AGE'S  SHIP  AND  CRAFTY  DEATH'S  608 
THE  COMMONPLACE  .  .  .  '  .  .  608 
L.  OF  G.'s  PURPORT  ....  609 

THE  UNEXPRESS'D 609 

GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  !  .  .  .609 
DEATH'S  VALLEY 609 


LANIER 
THE  DYING  WORDS  OF  STONEWALL  JACK- 


SON . 
NIGHT  ANP  DAV 


Gil 
.  611 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


SONG  FOR  'THE  JACQUERIE'       . 

MY  SPRINGS 

THE  SYMPHONY 

EVENING  SONG 

THE  WAVING  OF  THE  CORN          . 

SONNETS    ON     COLUMBUS.     FROM 

4  PSALM  OF  THE  WEST'   . 
To  BEETHOVEN 
THE  MOCKING  BIRD 
TAMPA  ROBINS 

FROM  THE  FLATS        .•      .        . 
THE  STIRRUP-CUP 
SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE 
THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN      .        . 
THE  REVENGE  OF  HAMISH       . 
How  LOVE  LOOKED  FOR  HELL    . 
To  BAYARD  TAYLOR          .. 
MARSH  SONG  —  AT  SUNSET    .        . 
SUNRISE 


611 
612 
612 


616 

.      617 

THE 

.617 

619 

620 

620 

.621 

621 

.  621 

.622 

.623 

.      626 

.  627 

.628 

629 


LIST  OF   REFERENCES 

BRYANT    .  ...  ,635 

POE        ........  636 

EMERSON  .  «.       0       .       .     638 


LONGFELLOW       ...  .  641 


WHITTIER 
HOLMES 
LOWELL    , 
WHITMAN 
LANIER 


643 
.  645 

646 
.  647 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCHES 

BRYANT 655 

POE 658 

EMERSON 663 

LONGFELLOW 667 

WHITTIER 674 

HOLMES 677 

LOWELL 679 

WHITMAN 685 

LANIER  .  691 


INDEXES 


INDEX  OF  POETS 
INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 
INDEX  OF  TITLES    . 


699 
706 


THE   CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT 


[The  poems  from  Bryant  are  printed  by  the  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  the  authorized 
publishers  of  his  works.] 


THANATOPSIS1 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she 

speaks 

A  various  language;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile. 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.  When 

thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images  10 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow 

house, 
Make  thee   to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at 

heart;  — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

1  This,  the  first  great  poem  written  in  America,  was 
published  in  the  North  American  Review  for  September, 
1817,  vol.  v,  pp.  338-aiO.  Bryant's  father  had  found  it, 
together  with  the  '  Fragment,'  later  known  as  '  In- 
scription for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood,'  among  other 
papers  in  a  desk  ;  and  had  immediately  taken  it  to  Bos- 
ton and  shown  it  to  his  friend  Willard  Phillips,  one 
of  the  editors  of  the  North -American  Review.  When 
Phillips  read  the  poem  to  his  fellow  editors,  one  of 
them,  Richard  H.  Dana,  exclaimed,  '  Ah,  Phillips,  you 
have  been  imposed  upon  ;  no  one  on  this  side  of  the  At- 
lantic is  capable  of  writing  such  verses  ;  '  and  though 
soon  persuaded  that  the  verses  really  were  by  an  Amer- 
ican, the  editors  still  believed  that  '  Thanatopsis  ' 
must  have  been  written  by  the  young  poet's  father. 
Phillips  says  in  a  letter  to  Bryant,  December,  1817  : 
1  Tour  "  Fragment  "  was  exceedingly  liked  here.  .  .  . 
All  the  best  judges  say  that  it  and  your  father's  "  Than- 
atopsis" are  the  very  best  poetry  that  has  been  pub- 
lished in  this  country.' 

As  originally  printed  in  the  North  American  Review, 
the  poem  began  with  what  is  now  line  17, 

—Yet  afewdayi, 
and  ended  with  lines  65  and  66, 

shall  come, 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee. 

It  was  preceded  by  four  stanzas  of  four  lines  each, 
which  did  not  properly  belong  to  the  poem,  but  had  been 
found  with  it.  The  beginning  and  ending  of  the  poem 
as  it  now  stands  were  first  given  in  the  volume  of  poems 
published  by  Bryant  in  1821. 

See  Mr.  Godwin's  account  of  the  origin  of  the  poem, 
in  his  Life  of  Bryant,  vol.  i,  pp.  97-101  ;  and  of  its  first 
publication,  pp.  148-155. 


To    Nature's    teachings,   while    from    all 

around  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of 

air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice  —  Yet  a  few  days,  and 

thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In   all   his   course;    nor   yet   in   the    cold 

ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many 

tears,  20 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy   image.     Earth,  that   nourished  thee, 

shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude 

swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.   The 

oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy 

mould.  3o 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst   thou 

wish 
Couch   more   magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie 

down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with 

kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth  —  the  wise,  the 

good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  —  the 

vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods  —  rivers  that  move  40 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured 

round  all, 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of   the   great  tomb  of  man.   The  golden 

s\m, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that 

tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That   slumber   in   its   bosom.  —  Take   the 

wings  So 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls   the   Oregon,   and   hears    no 

sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet  the  dead  are 

there: 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them 

down 
In  their  last  sleep  —  the  dead  reign  there 

alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  with- 
draw 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take   note   of   thy   departure?     All   that 

breathe  60 

Will   share   thy   destiny.      The    gay   will 

laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of 

care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall 

leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and 

shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.   As  the  long 

train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who 

goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and 

maid, 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed 

man  —  70 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow 

them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes 

to  join 

The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall 

take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 


Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and 

soothed 
By   an    unfaltering    trust,    approach    thy 

grave, 
Like  one   who   wraps   the   drapery  of  his 

couch  so 

About   him,   and  lies    down    to    pleasant 

dreams. 
1811  ?  1817.1 


THE   YELLOW  VIOLET 

WHEN  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell, 

And  woods  the  blue-bird's  warble  know, 

The  yellow  violet's  modest  bell 

Peeps  from  the  last  year's   leaves   be- 
low. 

Ere  russet  fields  their  green  resume, 
Sweet  flower,  I  love,  in  forest  bare, 

To  meet  thee,  when  thy  faint  perfume 
Alone  is  in  the  virgin  air. 

Of  all  her  train,  the  hands  of  Spring 

First  plant  thee  in  the  watery  mould,    10 

And  I  have  seen  thee  blossoming 
Beside  the  snow-bank's  edges  cold. 

Thy  parent  sun,  who  bade  thee  view 
Pale  skies,  and  chilling  moisture  sip, 

Has  bathed  thee  in  his  own  bright  hue, 
And  streaked  with  jet  thy  glowing  lip. 

Yet  slight  thy  form,  and  low  thy  seat, 
And  earthward  bent  thy  gentle  eye, 

Unapt  the  passing  view  to  meet, 

When  loftier  flowers  are  flaunting  nigh.  20 

Oft,  in  the  sunless  April  day, 

Thy  early  smile  has  stayed  my  walk; 

But  midst  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  May, 
I  passed  thee  on  thy  humble  stalk. 

1  Figures  at  the  left,  in  italics,  give  the  date  of  writ- 
ing ;  those  at  the  right,  in  roman,  the  date  of  publica- 
tion. For  Bryant's  poems  the  dates  are  taken  from 
Godwin's  standard  edition  of  the  Poetical  Works. 

Mr.  Godwin  states  in  his  note  to  '  Thanatopsis '  that 
the  poem  was  written  in  the  summer  of  1811,  which 
would  make  Bryant  only  sixteen  years  old  at  the  time, 
not  seventeen,  as  Mr.  Godwin  himself  elsewhere  saye 
Bryant's  own  account  of  the  matter  is  given  in  a  lette. 
of  1855,  which  Mr.  Godwin  quotes :  '  I  cannot  givt 
you  any  information  of  the  occasion  which  suggested 
to  my  mind  the  idea  of  my  poem  "  Thanatopsis."  It  was 
written  when  I  was  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  old  —  1 
have  not  now  at  hand  the  memorandums  [«c]  which 
would  enable  me  to  be  precise  —  and  I  believe  it  was 
composed  in  my  solitary  rambles  in  the  woods.' 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 


So  they,  who  climb  to  wealth,  forget 
The  friends  in  darker  fortunes  tried. 

I  copied  them  —  but  I  regret 

That  I  should  ape  the  ways  of  pride. 

And  when  again  the  genial  hour 

Awakes  the  painted  tribes  of  light,    30 

I  '11  not  o'erlook  the  modest  flower 
That  made  the  woods  of  April  bright. 

M4.  1821. 


INSCRIPTION    FOR   THE    EN- 
TRANCE  TO   A   WOOD 

STRANGER,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth 

which  needs 

No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 
Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 
Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 
To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 
And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.    The  calm 

shade 
Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet 

breeze 
That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall 

waft  a  balm 
To  thy  sick  heart.    Thou  wilt  find  nothing 

here 
Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of 

men,  ,0 

And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.    The  primal 

curse 

Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 
But  not  in  vengeance.   God  hath  yoked  to 

guilt 
Her  pale  tormentor,  misery.    Hence,  these 

shades 
Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness;  the  thick 

roof 

Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 
And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 
In  wantonness  of  spirit;  while  below 
The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form 

erect, 
Chirps  merrily.    Throngs  of  insects  in  the 

shade  20 

Try  their  thin  wings  and  dance  in  the  warm 


That  waked  them  into  life.    Even  the  green 

crees 

Partake  the  deep  contentment;  as  they  bend 
To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue 

sky 
Looks  in  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene. 


Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems 

to  enjoy 

Existence,  than  the  winged  plunderer 
That  sucks  its  sweets.   The  mossy  rocks 

themselves, 

And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  pros- 
|  trate  trees 

That  lead  from  knoll  to   knoll  a  causey 

rude  30 

Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark 

roots, 
With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting 

high, 

Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.    The  rivulet 
Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er 

its  bed 

Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks, 
Seems,  with  continuous  laughter,  to  rejoice 
In  its  own  being.  Softly  tread  the  marge, 
Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the 

wren 

That  dips  her  bill  in  water.*   The  cool  wind, 
That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to 

thee,  4<7 

Like  one  that  loves  thee  nor  will  let  thee 

pass 

Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 
1816.  1817. 


TO   A   WATERFOWL2 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps 

of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou 

pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee 

wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide,     to 

1  The  poem,  as  first  published  in  the  North  Ameri- 
can Review  for  September,  1817,  under  the  title  '  A 
Fragment,'  ended  at  this  point.    The  last  lines  were 
added  in  the  first  edition  of  the  Poems,  in  1821. 

2  On  the  origin  of  this  poem,  see  Godwin's  Life  oj 
Bryant,  vol.  i,  pp.  143,  144.     Hartley  Coleridge  onca 
called  it   '  the  best  short  poem  in  the  English  lan- 
guage ; '  and  Matthew   Arnold  was  inclined  to  agree 
with  his  judgment.     S«e  an  account  of  the  incident  in 
Bigelow's  Life  of  Bryant,  note  to  pp.  42,  43. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast  — . 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmos- 
phere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near.  20 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and 

rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall 

bend, 
Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet,  on  mv 

heart 
Deeply  has  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  cer- 
tain flight,  30 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 
1815.  1818. 


GREEN    RIVER  i 

WHEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of 

green, 
As    if  the   bright   fringe   of   herbs  on  its 

brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  waves  they 

drink; 
And    they,   whose  meadows   it    murmurs 

through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair 

hue. 

Yet  pure  its  waters  —  its   shallows  are 

bright  9 

With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 

1  This  was  Bryant's  favorite  among  his  early  poems. 


And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 
And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'er- 

shoot 

The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 
Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk 

the  hill, 

The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 
With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 
Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  dia- 
mond-stone. 

Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 
With  blossoms,  and   birds,  and  wild-bees* 
hum;  20 

The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 
And   freshest   the   breath  of  the  summer 

air; 

And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 
In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 

Yet,  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  slimmest  t<? 

glide, 

Beautiful  stream  !  by  the  village  side ; 
But  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still ;  30 
Lonely  —  save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides, 
Or   the   simpler   comes,   with  basket   and 

book, 

For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee, 
Still  —  save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed, 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  of  fairy  shout,         4o 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 

That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor   gaze   on   those   waters  so  green  and 

clear, 

And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 
While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket 

clings, 

And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee,  50 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  de- 
part, 

And  the  peace  of   the  scene  pass  into  my 
heart: 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT 


And  I  envy  thy  stream,  as  it  glides  along 
Through  its  beautiful  banks  in  a  trance  of 


Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs 

of  men, 

And   scrawl  strange  words  with  the  bar- 
barous pen, 

And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 
Where  the  sons  of  strife   are  subtle   and 

loud  — 

I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 
To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face,     60 
And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream, 
For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream 
An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears 
That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 
1819.  1820. 


A  WINTER   PIECE 

THE  time  has  been  that  these  wild  soli- 
tudes, 

Y"et  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 
Of tener  than  now ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit  —  when  the  unsteady 

pulse 
Beat   with   strange   flutterings  —  I   would 

wander  forth 
And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my 

path 

Was  to  me  as  a  friend.    The  swelling  hills, 
The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 
With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 
Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society  10 

That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.     Then 

the  chant 
Of   birds,   and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft 

caress 

Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 
The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I 

began 

To  gather  simples  by  tba  fountain's  brink, 
And  lose  myself  in  day-dreams.     While  I 

stood 

In  Nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 
With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 
Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose 

voice 

Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole    20 
From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the 

world 
Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.    W  hen 

shrieked 


The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the 

woods, 
And  the  brown  fields   were  herbless,  and 

the  shades, 

That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 
Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still; 

they  seemed 

Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 
Still  there   was   beauty  in  my  walks;  the 

brook, 
Bordered  with  sparkling   frost-work,   was 

as  gay 
As    with   its    fringe   of   summer   flowers. 

Afar,  30 

The  village  with   its   spires,   the   path   of 

streams 

And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 
By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 
Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar 

haunts 
Seemed   new  to   me.   Nor   was  I  slow  to 

come 
Among  them,  when  the  clouds,  from  their 

still  skirts, 
Had  shaken  down  on   earth  the   feathery 

snow, 
And   all   was   white.     The  pure   keen  air 

abroad, 
Albeit   it  breathed  no  scent  of   herb,  nor 

heard 

Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee,  40 
Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses 

crept 

Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 
That  lay  along  the   boughs,   instinct  with 

life, 
Patient,   and   waiting   the   soft   breath   of 

Spring, 

Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 
The  snow-bird  twittered   on   the   beechen 

bough, 
And    'neath    the    hemlock,    whose    thick 

branches  bent 
Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept 

dry 

A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 
The  partridge  found  a  shelter.     Through 

the  snow  50 

The  rabbit  sprang  away.     The  lighter  track 
Of  fox,  and  the  raccoon's  broad  path,  were 

there, 
Crossing   each    other.     From    his    hollow 

tree 
The   squirrel   was   abroad,   gathering   the 

nutu 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and 

sway 
Of  winter  blast,  to  shake  them  from  their 

hold. 

But  Winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes  —  he 

boasts 
Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer 

knows; 

Or  Autumn  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 
All  flushed  with  many  hues.    Come  when 

the  rains  60 

Have  glazed  the  snow  and  clothed  the  trees 

with  ice, 

While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.     Approach  ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.     Look  !  the  massy 

trunks 
Are  cased  hi  the  pure  crystal;  each  light 

spray, 
Nodding   and   tinkling   in    the    breath   of 

heaven, 

Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
That  glimmer  with  an  amethystine  light. 
But   round   the  parent-stem  the  long  low 

boughs  71 

Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 
The   glassy   floor.     Oh!   you  might  deem 

the  spot 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 
Deep  in   the  womb  of  earth  —  where  the 


And 


bud 


put  forth  radiant  rods  and 


With  amethyst  and  topaz  —  and  the  place 
Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 
That  dwells  in  them.    Or  haply  the  vast  hall 
Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night,    80 
And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun ;  — 
Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender 

shafts 

And  crossing  arches;  and  fantastic  aisles 
Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are 

lost 
Among  the  crowded   pillars.     Raise  thine 

eye; 

Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault; 
There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting 

cloud 

Look  in.  Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 
Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 
And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in 


And  all  their  sluices  sealed.   All,  all  is  light,- 
Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall   pass 

away 
With  the  next  sun.     From  numberless  vast 

trunks 
Loosened,  the  crashing   ice  shall   make  a 

sound 

Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 
Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was 

wont. 

And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 
The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 
In  the  deep  glen   or   the   close   shade   of 

pines  —  ioc 

'Tis   pleasant   to    behold   the   wreaths   of 

smoke 

Roll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  shrill  sound  of  youthful  voices 

wakes 

The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 
That  from  the  wounded  trees,  iu  twinkling 

drops, 

Falls,  mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 
Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and 

oft, 
Wielded   by    sturdy  hands,  the   stroke  of 

axe 
Makes  the  woods    ring.  Along   the  quiet 

air, 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the   soft  light 

clouds,  1 10 

Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.    Lodged  in  sunny 

cleft, 
Where  the  cold  breezes  come   not,  blooms 

alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened 

eye 

Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at  — 
Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds 

shall  oft 

Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen 

earth  121 

Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like 

hail 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North 

again 

Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forest  in  his  rage. 
-7*20.  1821 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 


HYMN    TO   DEATH 

OH  !  could  I  hope  the  wise  and  pure  in 

heart 
Might  hear  my  song  without  a  frown,  nor 

deem 

My  voice  unworthy  of  the  theme  it  tries,  — 
I  would  take  up  the  hymn  to  Death,  and 

I  say      . 

To  the  grim  power,  The  world  hath  slan- 
dered thee 
And  mocked  thee.     On  thy  dim  and  shad- 
owy brow 

They  place  an  iron  crown,  and  call  thee  king 
Of  terrors,  and  the  spoiler  of  the  world, 
Deadly  assassin,  that  strik'st  down  the  fair, 
The  loved,  the  good  —  that  breathest  on  the 

lights  10 

Of  virtue  set  along  the  vale  of  life, 
And  they  go  out  in  darkness.    I  am  come, 
Not  with  reproaches,  not  with  cries  and 

prayers, 
Such  as  have  stormed  thy  stern,  insensible 

ear 

From  the  beginning;  I  am  come  to  speak 
Thy  praises.  True  it  is,  that  I  have  wept 
Thy  conquests,  and  may  weep  them  yet 

again, 

And  thou  from  some  I  love  wilt  take  a  life 
Dear  to  me  as  my  own.  Yet  while  the  spell 
Is  on  my  spirit,  and  I  talk  with  thee  20 
In  sight  of  all  thy  trophies,  face  to  face, 
Meet  is  it  that  my  voice  shoidd  utter  forth 
Thy  nobler  triumphs ;  I  will  teach  the  world 
To  thank  thee.  Who  are  thine  accusers  ? 

—  Who  ? 
The    living  !  —  they  who   never   felt   thy 

power, 
And   know  thee   not.     The  curses  of   the 

wretch 
Whose  crimes  are  ripe,  his  sufferings  when 

thy  hand 

Is  on  him,  and  the  hour  he  dreads  is  come, 
Are  writ  among  thy  praises.  But  the  good  — 
Does  he  whom  thy  kind  hand  dismissed  to 

peace,  3o 

Upbraid  the  gentle  violence  that  took  off 
His  fetters,  and  unbarred  his  prison-cell  ? 

Raise  then  the  hymn  to  Death.  Deliv- 
erer ! 

God  hath  anointed  thee  to  free  the  op- 
pressed 

And  crush  the  oppressor.  When  the  armed 
chief, 


The  conqueror  of  nations,  walks  the  world, 
And  it  is  changed  beneath  his  feet,  and  all 
Its  kingdoms  melt  into  one  mighty  realm  — 
Thou,  while  his  head  is  loftiest  and  his  heart 
Blasphemes,  imagining  his  own  right  hand  40 
Almighty,  thou  dost  set  thy  sudden  grasp 
Upon  him,  and  the  links  of  that  strong  chain 
Which  bound  mankind  are  crumbled;  thou 

dost  break 
Sceptre  and  crown,  and  beat  his  throne  to 

dust. 
Then  the  earth  shouts  with  gladness,  and 

her  tribes 

Gather  within  their  ancient  bounds  again. 
Else  had  the  mighty  of  the  olden  time, 
Nimrod,  Sesostris,  or  the  youth  who  feigned 
His  birth  from  Libyan  Ammon,  smitten  yet 
The  nations  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  driven 
Their  chariot  o'er  our  necks.     Thou  dost 

avenge,  5, 

In  thy  good  time,  the  wrongs  of  those  who 

know 

No  other  friend.     Nor  dost  thou  interpose 
Only  to  lay  the  sufferer  asleep, 
Where  he  who  made  him  wretched  troubles 

not 
His  rest  —  thou  dost  strike  down  his  tyrant 

too. 
Oh,  there  is  joy  when  hands  that  held  the 

scourge 

Drop  lifeless,  and  the  pitiless  heart  is  cold. 
Thou  too  dost  purge  from  earth  its  horrible 
And  old  idolatries ;  —  from  the  proud  fanes 
Each  to  his  grave  their  priests  go  out,  till 

none  61 

Is  left  to  teach  their  worship ;  then  the  fires 
Of  sacrifice  are  chilled,  and  the  green  moss 
O'ercreeps  their  altars;  the  fallen  images 
Cumber   the  weedy  courts,  and   for   loud 

hymns, 

Chanted  by  kneeling  multitudes,  the  wind 
Shrieks  in  the  solitary  aisles.     When  he 
Who  gives  his  life  to  guilt,  and  laughs  at  all 
The  laws  that  God  or  man  has  made,  and 

round 
Hedges  his  seat  with  power,  and  shines  in 

wealth,  —  70 

Lifts  up  his  atheist  front  to  scoff  at  Hea- 
ven, 

And  celebrates  his  shame  in  open  day, 
Thou,  in  the  pride  of  all  his  crimes,  cutt'st 

off 

The  horrible  example.  Touched  by  thine, 
The  extortioner's  hard  hand  foregoes  the 

gold 


8 


CHIEv    AMERICAN   POETS 


Wrung  from  the  o'er-worn  poor.   The  per- 
jurer, 

Whose  tongue  was  lithe,  e'en  now,  and  vol- 
uble 
Against  his  neighbor's   life,   and   he   who 

laughed 

And  leaped  for  joy  to  see  a  spotless  fame 
Blasted  before  his  own  foul  calumnies,      80 
Are   smit  with   deadly   silence.     He,  who 

sold 

His  conscience  to  preserve  a  worthless  life, 
Even  while  he  hugs  himself  on  his  escape, 
Trembles,  as,  doubly  terrible,  at  length, 
Thy  steps  o'ertake  him,  and  there  is  no  time 
For   parley,  nor  will  bribes  unclench    thy 

grasp. 

Oft,  too,  dost  thou  reform  thy  victim,  long 
Ere  his  last  hour.  And  when  the  reveller, 
Mad  in  the  chase  of  pleasure,  stretches  on, 
And  strains  each  nerve,  and  clears  the  path 
of  life  90 

Like  wind,  thou  poiut'st  him  to  the  dread- 
ful goal, 
And  shak'st  thy  hour-glass  in  his  reeling 

eve> 
Ajid   check'st   him   in    mid   course.     Thy 

skeleton  hand 

Shows  to  the  faint  of  spirit  the  right  path, 
And  he  is  warned,  and  fears  to  step  aside. 
Thou  sett'st  between  the  ruffian  and  his 

crime 
Thy   ghastly    countenance,   and   his   slack 

hand 
Drops   the   drawn   knife.     But,   oh,   most 

fearfully 
Dost   thou   show   forth  Heaven's    justice, 

when  thy  shafts 

Drink  up  the  ebbing  spirit  —  then  the  hard 
Of  heart  and  violent  of  hand  restores  101 
The  treasure  to  the  friendless  wretch  he 

wronged. 
Then  from  the  writhing  bosom  thou  dost 

pluck 

The  guilty  secret;  lips,  for  ages  sealed, 
Are   faithless   to   their   dreadful   trust  at 

length, 

And  give  it  up;  the  felon's  latest  breath 
Absolves  the  innocent  man  who  bears  his 

crime; 

The  slanderer,  horror-smitten,  and  in  tears, 
Recalls  the  deadly  obloquy  he  forged 
To  work   his   brother's   ruin.     Thou   dost 
make  1 10 

Thy  penitent  victim  utter  to  the  air 
The  dark  conspiracy  that  strikes  at  life, 


And  aims  to  whelm  the  laws;  ere  yet  the 

hour 
Is   come,  and   the    dread  sign  of   murder 

given. 

Thus,  from  the  first  of  time,  hast  thou 

been  found 

On  virtue's  side;  the  wicked,  but  for  thee, 
Had  been  too  strong  for  the  good;  the  great 

of  earth 
Had  crushed  the  weak  for  ever.   Schooled 

in  guile 
For   ages,    while   each    passing   year   had 

brought  1 1  q 

Its  baneful  lesson,  they  had  filled  the  world 
With  their  abominations ;  while  its  tribes, 
Trodden  to  earth,  inibruted,  and  despoiled, 
Had  knelt  to  them  in  worship;  sacrifice 
Had  smoked   on   many   an  altar,  temple- 
roofs 
Had  echoed  with  the  blasphemous  prayer 

and  hymn :  • 

But  thou,  the  great  reformer  of  the  world, 
Tak'st  off  the  sons  of  violence  and  fraud 
In  their   green   pupilage,   their   lore   half 

learned  — 
Ere    guilt   had   quite    o'errun   the    simple 

heart 
God   gave  them  at  their  birth,  and  blotted 

Out  130 

His  image.     Thou  dost  mark  them  flushed 

with  hope, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  their  vast  designs 
Doubtful  and  loose  they  stand,  and  strik'st 

them  down.1 

Alas  !    I  little   thought   that   the    stern 

power, 
Whose  fearful  praise  I  sang,  would  try  me 

thus 
Before    the    strain    was   ended.     It   must 


For  he  is  in  his  grave  who  taught  my  youth 
The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 
Offered  me  to  the  Muses.     Oh,  cut  off    139 
Untimely  !  when  thy  reason  in  its  strength, 
Ripened  by  years  of  toil  and  studious  search, 
And  watch  of  Nature's  silent  lessons,  taught 
Thy  hand  to  practise  best  the  lenient  art 
To  which  thou  gavest  thy  laborious  days, 
And,  last,  thy  life.     And,  therefore,  when 
the  earth 

1  The  poem  was  at  first  left  unfinished,  at  this  point. 
Its  concluding  lines  were  added  after  the  death  o* 
Bryant's  father,  in  1820,  at  the  age  of  fifty-three. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


Received   thee,  tears  were    in   unyielding 

eyes 
And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed 

thy  skill 
Delayed  their  death-hour,  shuddered  and 

turned  pale 
When    thou    wert    gone.     This    faltering 

verse,  which  thou 

Shalt  not,  as  wont,  o'erlook,  is  all  I  have 
To   offer  at   thy   grave  —  this  —  and    the 

hope  151 

To  copy  thy  example,  and  to  leave 
A  name  of  which  the  wretched  shall  not 

think 

As  of  an  enemy's,  whom  they  forgive 
As  all  forgive  the  dead.     Rest,  therefore, 

thou 
Whose  early   guidance   trained  my  infant 

steps  — 
Rest,  in  the  bosom  of  God,  till  the  brief 

sleep 

Of  death  is  over,  and  a  happier  life 
Shall  dawn  to  waken  thine  insensible  dust. 

Now  thou   art   not  —  and  yet   the  men 

whose  guilt  160 

Has  wearied  Heaven  for  vengeance  —  he 

who  bears 
False  witness  —  he  who  takes  the  orphan's 

bread, 
And   robs    the   widow  —  he   who    spreads 

abroad 

Polluted  hands  in  mockery  of  prayer, 
Are  left  to  cumber  earth.     Shuddering  I 

look 

On  what  is  written,  yet  I  blot  not  out 
The  desultory  numbers;  let  them  stand, 
The  record  of  an  idle  revery. 
1820.  1825. 


<O     FAIREST     OF     THE     RURAL 
MAIDS 'i 

O  FAIREST  of  the  rural  maids  ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

*  '  O  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids '  will  strike  every 
poet  as  the  truest  poem  written  by  Bryant.   (Pon.) 


The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 


Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast; 
The  holy  peace,  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 
120.  1832. 


MONUMENT   MOUNTAIN2 

THOU  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the 

wild 

Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.    Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to 

forget 
The   steep   and   toilsome  way.     There,  as 

thou  stand'st, 

The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The     mountain-summits,    thy     expanding 

heart  9 

Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 
To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 
The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.   Thou  shalt 

look 


2  The  mountain  called  by  this  name  is  a  remarkable 
precipice  in  Great  Harrington,  overlooking  the  rich  and 
picturesque  valley  of  the  Housatonic,  in  the  western  part 
of  Massachusetts.  At  the  southern  extremity  is,  or  was 
a  few  years  since,  a  conical  pile  of  small  stones,  erected, 
according  to  the  tradition  of  the  surrounding  country, 
by  the  Indians,  in  memory  of  a  woman  of  the  Stock- 
bridge  tribe  who  killed  herself  by  leaping  from  the  edge 
of  the  precipice.  Until  within  a  few  years  past,  small 
parties  of  that  tribe  used  to  arrive  from  their  settle- 
ment in  the  western  part  of  the  State  of  New  York,  on 
visits  to  Stockbridge,  the  place  of  their  nativity  and 
former  residence.  A  young  woman  belonging  to  one 
of  these  parties  related,  to  a  friend  of  the  author,  the 
story  on  which  the  poem  of  '  Monument  Mountain '  is 
founded.  An  Indian  girl  had  formed  an  attachment 
lor  her  cousin,  which,  according  to  the  customs  of  the 
tribe,  was  unlawful.  She  was,  in  consequence,  seized 
with  a  deep  melancholy,  and  resolved  to  destroy  her- 
self. In  company  with  a  female  friend,  she  repaired 
to  the  mountain,  decked  out  for  the  occasion  in  all  her 
ornaments,  and,  after  passing  the  day  on  the  summit  in 
singing  with  her  companion  the  traditional  fongs  of 
her  nation,  she  threw  herself  headlong  from  the  rock- 
and  was  killed.  (BBYANT.) 


10 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest-tops, 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 
And  streams  that  with  their  bordering 

thickets  strive 
To  hide  their  windings.     Thou  shalt  gaze, 

at  once, 

Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds, 
And   swarming   roads,  and  there  on   soli- 
tudes 

That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 
And  eagle's  shriek.    There  is  a  precipice  20 
That  seems   a  fragment   of   some  mighty 

wall,    ' 
Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old 

world, 

To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 
When  the  flood   drowned   them.     To   the 

north,  a  path 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 
Steep    is    the   western    side,    shaggy   and 

wild 

With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 
And  many  a  hanging  crag.  But,  to  the 

east, 
Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old 

cliffs  — 

Huge   pillars,  that  in   middle  heaven  up- 
bear 3o 
Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 
With  moss,  the  growth  of  centuries,  and 

there 

Of  chalky  whiteness  where   the  thunder- 
bolt 

Has  splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 
Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge 

gray  wall, 
Have   tumbled  down   vast  blocks,  and  at 

the  base 
Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine 

ear 

Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 
Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  be- 
low, 40 
Come   up   like   ocean  murmurs.     But  the 

scene 

Is  lovely  round ;  a  beautiful  river  there 
Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 
The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 
Mining  the  soil  for  ages.   On  each  side 
The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills;  be- 
yond, 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 
The  mountain-columns   with   which  earth 
props  heaven. 


There   is  a  tale   about  these   reverend 

rocks, 

A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love,  50 

And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 
When    over   these   fair   vales   the   savage 

sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.     There  was 

a  maid, 

The    fairest  of  the  Indian   maids,  bright- 
eyed, 

With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form, 
And  a  gay  heart.   About  her  cabin-door 
The  wide  old  woods   resounded  with   her 

song 

And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She   loved   her   cousin;   such   a   love   was 

deemed, 

By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes,        60 
Incestuous,   and   she   struggled   hard   and 

long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with   her 

heart, 

As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.  In  vain. 
Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 
Its  lightness,  and  the  gray-haired  men  that 


Her  dwelling,  wondered  that  they  heard  no 

more 
j  The  accustomed  song   and   laugh   of  her, 

whose  looks 
Were  like   the  cheerful   smile  of  Spring, 

they  said, 

Upon  the  Winter  of  their  age.    She  went 
To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not 

found  7o 

Where   all   the   merry   girls  were  met  to 

dance, 

And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out; 
Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling 

husk 
The  shining  ear;  nor  when,  by  the  river's 

side, 
They  pulled   the  grape   and   startled   the 

wild  shades 
With   sounds    of    mirth.     The   keen-eyed 

Indian  dames 

Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 
Her  wasting  form,  and  say,   The  girl  will 

die. 

One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A   playmate   of   her   young   and   innocent 

yearsr  So 

She  poured  her  griefs.    '  Thou  know'st,  and 

thou  alone,' 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT 


She  said,  '  for  I  have  told  thee,  all  my  love, 
And  guilt,  and  sorrow.    I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the  morn 
Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accursed, 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.    I  hate' 
The  pastimes  and   the  pleasant  toils  that 

once 

I  loved;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Sound  in   my  ear   like   Blockings,  and,  at 

night, 
In  dreams,  my  mother,  from  the  land  of 

souls,  90 

Calls  me  and  chides  me.    All  that  look  on 

me 

Do  seem  to  know  my  shame ;  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root 

out 
The  iove  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die.' 

It   was   a   summer   morning,   and   they 

went 

To  this  old  precipice.    About  the  cliffs 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  shaggy 

skins 

Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they 

deemed, 
Like  worshippers  of  the   elder  time,  that 

God  zoo 

Doth  walk  on  the  high  places  and  affect 
The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.    She  had 

on 

The  ornaments  with  which  her  father  loved 
To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 
And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors 

came 
To  be  his  guests.     Here  the  friends   sat 

them  down, 
And  sang,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and 

death, 
And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with 

flowers, 
And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be 

her  way 
To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no 

grief  ,,o 

Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 
Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 
Below  her  —  waters  resting  in  the  embrace 
Of    the  wide    forest,   and    maize-planted 

glades 

Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 
She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 
Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the 

trees, 


And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 
Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 
And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 
Ran  from  her  eyes.     But  when  the  sun 

grew  low  121 

And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 
From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.  There 

was  scooped, 
Upon    the    mountain's    southern  slope,  a 

grave; 

And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 
With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for 

death, 
With  the  same   withering  wild-flowers  in 

her  hair, 
And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the 

tribe 

Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 
Of  small  loose  stones.     Thenceforward  all 

who  passed,  :3o 

Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 
In  silence  on  the  pile.  It  stands  there  yet. 
And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who 

come 

To  visit  There  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 
Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 
The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden 

died 
Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 


AUTUMN  WOODS 

ERE,  in  the  northern  gale, 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gore, 
The  woods  of  Autumn,  all  around  our  vale, 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  infold, 
In  their  wide  sweep,  the  colored  landscape 

round, 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings,  in  purple  and 

gold, 
That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  uplands,  where  the  mingled  splendors 
glow,  ,o 

Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 
In   these   bright  walks;   the  sweet  south 
west,  at  play, 


12 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves 

are  strown 
Along  the  winding  way. 

And  far  in  heaven,  the  while, 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale   to  wander 

here, 
Pours   out   on    the    fair    earth    his   quiet 

smile  — 
The  sweetest  of  the  year.  20 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches 

meet; 
So   grateful,  when   the   noon   of    summer 

made 
The  valleys  sick  with  heat  ? 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 
Come  the  strange  rays;  the  forest  depths 

are  bright; 
Their  sunny  colored  foliage,  in  the  breeze, 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 
Where   bickering   through   the   shrubs  its 
waters  run,  3o 

Shines    with    the    image    of    its    golden 

screen, 
And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

But  'neath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his 


Nor  mark,  within  its  roseate  canopy, 
Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

Oh,  Autumn  !  why  so  soon 
Depart   the   hues   that   make   thy   forests 

glad, 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad  !  40 

Ah  !  't  were  a  lot  too  blest 
Forever  in  thy  colored  shades  to  stray; 
Amid  the  kisses  of  the  soft  southwest 

To  roam  and  dream  for  aye; 

And  leave  the  vain  low  strife 
That  makes  men  mad  —  the  tug  for  wealth 

and  power  — 
The   passions   and   the   cares   that  wither 

life, 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 
1824.  1824. 


A   FOREST   HYMN  J 

THE  groves  were  God's  first  temples. 

Ere  man  learned 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them  —  ere  he 

framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of   anthems;   in   the   darkling 

wood, 

Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.    For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 
Which,   from    the   stilly   twilight   of    the 

place,  I0 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in 

heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the 

sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and 

bowed 
His  spirit  with  the   thought  of  boundless 

power 

And  inaccessible  majesty.    Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neg- 
lect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?   Let  me, 

at  least,  2o 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn  —  thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  Thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.    Thou  didst 

look  down 

Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.    They,  in  thy 

sim, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in 

thy  breeze, 

And   shot   toward   heaven.    The   century- 
living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old 

and  died  30 

Among   their   branches,  till,  at  last,  the} 

stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and 

dark, 

Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  Lold 
1  See  Godwin's  Life  of  Bryant,  vol.  i,  p.  214. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


Communion  with  his   Maker.    These   dim 

vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or 

pride 

Report  not.    No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the 

form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  Thou  art  here  — 

Thou  fill'st 

The  solitude.    Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music;  Thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath    41 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place 
Comes,  scarcely  felt;  the  barky  trunks,  the 

ground, 
The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with 

Thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship;  —  Nature,  here, 
In  the  tranquillity  that  Thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  thy  presence.    Noiselessly,  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its 

herbs, 
Wells  softly  forth  and  wandering  steeps  the 

roots  5o 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.   Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  the  shades, 
Of  thy  perfections.  Grandeur,  strength,  and 

grace 
Are  here  to  speak  of  Thee.    This  mighty 

oak  — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 
Almost  annihilated  —  not  a  prince, 
In  all   that  proud  old   world  beyond  the 

deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears  the  green   coronal  of  leaves   with 

which  60 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.   Nestled  at  his 

root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 
Of   the   broad   sun.    That   delicate   forest 

flower, 
With   scented  breath  and  look  so  like  a 

smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  great  universe. 

My  heart   is   awed  within   me  when  I 

think 

Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on,     70 
In  silence,  round  me  —  the  perpetual  work 


Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.    Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die  —  but  see  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth   presses  —  ever   gay   and   beautiful 

youth 

In   all   its   beautiful   forms.     These   lofty- 
trees 

Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 

Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not 

lost  80 

One   of   earth's  charms:    upon  her  bosom 

yet, 

After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet   shall   lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle 

hate 

Of  his  arch-enemy  Death  —  yea,  seats  him- 
self 

Upon  the  tyrant's  throne  —  the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.   For  he  came 

forth 

From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no 
end. 

There  have    been    holy    men   who    hid 

themselves  9^ 

Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they 

outlived 

The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them;  —  and  there  have  been  holy 

men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life 

thus. 

But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.    Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble  and  are  still.    O  God  !  when 

Thou  ioi 

Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on 

fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or 

an, 

With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the 

woods 

And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities  —  who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies 

by? 

Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the 

wrath 

Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.   Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives.1 


JUNE2 

I  GAZED  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round, 
And  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

At  rest  within  the  ground, 
T  were  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain-turf  should  break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould,  10 

A  coffin  borne  tli  rough  sleet, 

And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat  — 

Away  !  —  I  will  not  think  of  these  — 

Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 
Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 

And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 

Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 

There    through  the    long,    long    summer 

hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie,  20 

And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flow- 
ers 
Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 

1  These  are  lines  ;  of  whose  great  rhythmical  beauty 
it  is  scarcely  possible  to  speak  too  highly.'  (PoE. ) 

*  -Among  the  minor  poems  of  Bryant,  none  has  so 
much  impressed  me  as  the  one  which  he  entitles  '  June. ' 
The  rhythmical  flow,  here,  is  even  voluptuous  —  no- 
thing could  be  more  melodious.  The  poem  has  always 
affected  me  in  a  remarkable  manner.  The  intense  mel- 
ancholy which  seems  to  well  up,  perforce,  to  the  surface 
of  all  the  poet's  cheerful  sayings  about  his  grave,  we 
find  thrilling  us  to  the  soul  —while  there  is  the  truest 
poetic  elevation  in  the  thrill.  The  impression  left  is 
one  of  a  pleasurable  sadness.  And  if,  in  the  remaining 
compositions  which  I  shall  introduce  to  you,  there  be 
more  or  less  of  a  similar  tone  always  apparent,  let 
me  remind  you  that  (how  or  why  we  know  not)  this 
certain  taint  of  sadness  is  inseparably  connected  with 
all  the  higher  manifestations  of  true  Beauty.  (PoK.) 


The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 
Come,  from  the  village  sent, 

Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon        30 
With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 

And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 

Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 
Of  my  low  monument  ? 

I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 

Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know  that  I  no  more  should  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow;  4o 

But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
The  gladness  of  the  scene; 

Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills        50 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
Is  that  his  grave  is  green; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear  again  his  living  voice.3 


OCTOBER 

AY,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven's  delicious 

breath  ! 

When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns 

grow  brief, 
And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its 

death. 

Wind  of  the  sunny  south  !  oh,  still  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, 
Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care, 
Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 
In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

s  Bryant  died  in  the  month  of  June  (1878),  and  was 
buried  in  the  beautiful  village  cemetery  at  Roslyn, 
Long  Island. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 


Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  'mid  bowers 

and  brooks, 

And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 
And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh; 
And  when   my  last   sand  twinkled  in  the 

glass, 

Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 
1826.  1826. 


THE  PAST  l 

THOU  unrelenting  Past ! 
Strong   are  the   barriers   round   thy   dark 
domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn, 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  Manhood,  Age  that  draws  us  to  the 
ground,  10 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years; 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends,  the  good,  the 
kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears  — 
The  venerable  form,  the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The   lost   ones  back  —  yearns  with  desire 

intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts   apart,  and   pluck   thy   captives 
thence.  20 

In  vain;  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  de- 
part; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back  —  nor  to  the  broken 
heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown;  to  thee 

1  According  to  Godwin,  Bryant  considered  this  his 
host  poem,  setting  it  above  '  Thanatopsis.' 

The  last  stanza  alludes  to  his  father,  and  to  a  sister 
who  died  in  her  twenty-second  year.  See  Godwin's  Life, 
toL  i,  p.  193. 


Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea, 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith,         3. 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in 
death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unuttered,  unrevered; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they  — ' 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last: 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past  !  4o 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished  —  no  ! 
Kind   words,  remembered  voices   once   so 
sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat. 

All  shall  come  back;  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again;  50 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the   next   grave  —  the  beautiful  and 

young. 
1828.  *1829. 


THE   EVENING   WIND2 

SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice, 

thou 

That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 
Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my 

brow; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the   deep   at 

play, 

2  This  poem,  by  its  imaginative  treatment  of  nature, 
and  by  its  artistic  completeness,  aroused  Poe's  great 
admiration.  He  speaks  of  the  last  lines  in  the  third 
as  '  breathing  all  the  spirit  of  Shelley.' 


i6 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 
Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering 

high  their  spray, 
And   swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome 

thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the 


Nor  I  alone ;  a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight;     J0 
And   languid   forms   rise   up,   and    pulses 

bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night; 
And,   languishing    to    hear    thy    grateful 

sound, 
Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the 

sight. 
Go   forth    into    the    gathering    shade;  go 

forth, 

God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting 
earth  ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 
Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars, 

and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 

Summoning      from      the      innumerable 

boughs  20 

""Tie  strange,  deep   harmonies   that   haunt 

his  breast: 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly 

bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters 

pass, 

And   where    the    o'ershadowing    branches 
sweep  the  grass. 

The  fault  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child 

asleep, 

And  *  dry   the   moistened   curls  that  over- 
spread 
His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows 

more  deep; 
And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's 

bed, 

Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep,  30 
And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 
Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go  —  but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
Which  is  the  life  of  Nature,  shall  re- 
store, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty 
range, 


Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once 

more; 
Sweet   odors    in    the    sea-air,   sweet    and 

strange, 
Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the 

shore ; 
And,   listening   to   thy   murmur,  he   shall 

deem 
He   hears   the   rustling  leaf   and   running 

stream.  40 

1829.  1830. 


TO   THE   FRINGED   GENTIAN  » 

THOU  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night, 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er   wandering   brooks    and   springs    un- 
seen, 

Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When    woods    are    bare    and    birds    are 

flown, 

And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue  —  blue  —  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 
1829.  1832. 

1  Compare  with  this  poem  Wordsworth's  '  To  the 
Small  Celandine,'  and  others. 

Notice  that  Bryant  addresses  his  verses  to  a  distinc- 
tively American  flower;  as  later  he  chooses  an  Ameri- 
can bird,  the  bobolink,  for  the  subject  of  a  poem  which 
is  to  be  contrasted  with  Wordsworth's  '  To  the  Sky- 
lark,' 'To  the  Green  Linnet,'  etc.  Bryant  gives  the 
reason  for  this  choice  in  a  letter  to  his  brother  John, 
February  19,  1832 :  '  I  saw  some  lines  by  you  to  the 
skylark.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  bird?  Let  me 
counsel  you  to  draw  your  images,  in  describing  Nature, 
from  what  you  observe  around  you,  unless  you  are 
professedly  composing  a  description  of  some  foreign 
country,  when,  of  course,  you  will  learn  what  you  can 
from  books.  The  skylark  is  an  English  bird,  and  an 
American  who  has  never  visited  Europe  has  no  ryrtt  Jo 
be  in  raptures  about  it.' 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 


HYMN    OF    THE    CITY 

NOT  in  the  solitude 
Alone  may  man  commune  with  Heaven,  or 

see, 

Only  in  savage  wood 
And  sunny  vale,  the  present  Deity; 

Or  only  hear  his  voice 

Where  the  winds  whisper  and  the  waves  re- 
joice. 

Even  here  do  I  behold 
Thy  steps,  Almighty  !  —  here,  amidst  the 

crowd 

Through  the  great  city  rolled, 
With  everlasting  murmur  deep  and  loud  — 
Choking  the  ways  that  wind  n 

'Mongst  the  proud  piles,  the  work  of  hu- 
man kind. 

Thy  golden  sunshine  comes 
From    the    round    heaven,  and    on    their 

dwellings  lies 

And  lights  their  inner  homes; 
For  them  Thou  flll'st  with  air  the  unbounded 

skies, 

And  givest  them  the  stores 
Of  ocean,  and  the  harvests  of  its  shores. 

Thy  Spirit  is  around, 

Quickening  the  restless  mass  that  sweeps 
along;  20 

And  this  eternal  sound  — 
Voices    and  footfalls   of    the    numberless 

throng  — 

Like  the  resounding  sea, 
Or  like  the  rainy  tempest,  speaks  of  Thee. 

And  when  the  hour  of  rest 
Comes,    like    a    calm    upon    the    mid-sea 
brine, 

Hushing  its  billowy  breast  — 
The  quiet  of  that  moment  too  is  thine; 

It  breathes  of  Him  who  keeps 
The  vast  and  helpless  city  while  it  sleeps.  30 
1830 f  1830. 


SONG   OF   MARION'S    MEN* 

OUR  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried, 
Our  leader  frank  and  bold; 

1  The  exploits  of  General  Francis  Marion,  the  famous 
partisan  warrior  of  South  Carolina,  form  an  interesting 
chapter  in  the  annals  of  the  American  Revolution. 
The  British  troops  were  so  harassed  by  the  irregular 


The  British  soldier  trembles  2 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass,  jo 

Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near  ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again;  20 

And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil: 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up,  3C 

And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 
The  band  that  Marion  leads  — 

The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds.  40 

and  successful  warfare  which  he  kept  up  at  the  head 
of  a  few  daring  followers,  that  they  sent  an  officer  to 
remonstrate  with  him  for  not  coming  into  the  open 
field  and  fighting  '  like  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian." 
(BRYANT.) 

On  the  occasion  of  a  reception  given  to  Bryant  in 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1873.  one  of  the  speak- 
ers said  that  the  'Song  of  Marions  Men'  had  been 
sung  in  many  a  Southern  bivouac,  and  warmed  the 
soldier's  heart  at  many  a  Confederate  camp-fire.'  See 
Godwin's  Life  of  Bryant,  vol.  ii,  pp.  330,  331. 

z  In  the  edition  of  Bryant's  poems  published  in  Eng- 
land in  1832,  and  edited  by  Washington  Irving,  this 
line  was  changed  to 

The  foeman  trembles  in  his  camp. 

Considerable  discussion  over  this  change  arose  later  in 
America,  of  which  a  full  account  can  be  found  in  Bige- 
low's  Life  of  Bryant,  pp.  129-139. 


i8 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


'T  is  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain ; 
'T  is  life  to  feel  the  night- wind 

That  lifts  the  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp  — 

A  moment  —  and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs ;  50 

Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

Forever,  from  our  shore.  60 

1831.  1831. 


THE  PRAIRIES1 

THESE  are  the  gardens  of  the  Desert, 

these 

The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no 

name  — 

The  Prairies.    I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And   my   heart   swells,  while  the  dilated 

sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.   Lo  !  they 

stretch, 

In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood   still,  with   all   his  rounded  billows 

fixed, 

*  See  the  account  of  Bryant's  first  visit  to  the  West, 
in  Godwin's  Life,  vol.  i,  pp.  282-286.  Especially  signi- 
ficant is  a  passage  from  Bryant's  letter  to  Richard  H. 
Dana  :  '  I  have  seen  the  great  West,  where  I  ate  corn 
and  hominy,  slept  in  log  houses,  with  twenty  men, 
women,  and  children  in  the  same  room.  .  .  .  At  Jackson- 
ville, where  my  two  brothers  live,  I  got  on  a  horse,  and 
travelled  about  a  hundred  miles  to  the  northward  over 
the  immense  prairies,  with  scattered  settlements,  on 
the  edges  of  the  groves.  These  prairies,  of  a  soft,  fer- 
tile garden  soil,  and  a  smooth  undulating  surface,  on 
which  you  may  put  a  horse  to  full  speed,  covered  with 
high,  thinly  growing  grass,  full  of  weeds  and  gaudy 
flowers,  and  destitute  of  bushes  or  trees,  perpetually 
brought  to  my  mind  the  idea  of  their  having  been  once 
cultivated.  They  looked  to  me  like  the  fields  of  a  race 
which  had  passed  away,  whose  enclosures  and  habita- 
tions had  decayed,  but  on  whose  vast  and  rich  plains, 
smoothed  and  levelled  by  tillage,  the  forest  had  not  yet 
encroached.' 


And  motionless  forever.  —  Motionless  ?  — 

No  —  they  are  all  unchained  again.     The 
clouds  j , 

Sweep  over  with  their   shadows,  and,  be- 
neath, 

The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye; 

Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 

The  sunny  ridges.    Breezes  of  the  South ! 

Who   toss  the  golden   and   the  flame-like 
flowers, 

And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on 
high, 

Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not e  - 
ye  have  played 

Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 

Of   Texas,   and   have    crisped   the   limpid 
brooks  2o 

That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 

Into  the  calm  Pacific  —  have  ye  fanned 

A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  ? 

Man   hath  no  power  in   all   this   glorious 
work: 

The  hand  that  built   the  firmament  hath 
heaved 

And  smoothed   these  verdant  swells,  and 
sown  their  slopes 

With   herbage,  planted   them  with  island 
groves, 

And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.    Fit- 
ting floor 

For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky  — 

With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  mul- 
titude 30 

Rival  the  constellations  !     The  great  hea- 
vens 

Seem   to   stoop   down   upon   the  scene   in 
love,  — 

A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 

Than  that  which  bends  above  our  eastern 
hills. 

As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my 

steed, 
Among  the  high  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his 

sides 

The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 
A  sacrilegious  sound.    I  think  of  those 
Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.     Are  they 

here  — 
The  dead  of  other  days  ?  —  and  did   the 

dust  40 

Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 

2  I  have  seen  the  prairie-hawk  balancing  himself  in 
the  air  for  hours  together,  apparently  over  the  same 
spot ;  probably  watching  his  prey.  (BBYANT.) 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 


And  burn  with  passion  ?   Let  the  mighty 

mounds 

That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 
In  the  dim  forest  crowded  with  old  oaks, 
Answer.     A   race,   that    long   has    passed 

away, 
Built  them  ;  —  a  disciplined  and  populous 

race 
Heaped,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet 

the  Greek 

Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 
Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 
The   glittering   Parthenon.     These   ample 

fields  so 

Nourished  their  harvests,  here  their  herds 

were  fed, 

When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  lowed, 
And  bowed  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 
All  day  this  desert  murmured  with  their 

toils, 
Till  twilight  blushed,  and  lovers  walked, 

and  wooed 

In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 
From  instruments  of  unremembered  form, 
Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.    The  red  man 

came  — 
The   roaming   hunter  tribes,  warlike   and 

fierce, 
And  the  mound-builders  vanished  from  the 

earth.  60 

The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 
Has     settled     where    they    dwelt.      The 

prairie-wolf 
Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug 

den 
Tawns  by  my  path.    The  gopher  mines  the 

ground 
Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.     All  is 

gone  ; 
All  —  save   the   piles   of   earth   that   hold 

their  bones, 

The  platforms  where  they  worshipped  un- 
known gods, 
The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the 

soil 

To  keep  the  foe  at  bay  —  till  o'er  the  walls 
The  wUd  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by 

one,  70 

The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced, 

and  heaped 
With  corpses.     The  brown  vultures  of  the 

'wood 

Flocked  to  those  vast  uncovered  sepulchres, 
And  sat  unscared  and  silent  at  their  feast. 
Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 


Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 
Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 
Bitterer    than   death,   yielded    himself   to 

die. 
Man's  better  nature  triumphed  then.   Kind 

words 
Welcomed    and  soothed  him;    the    rude 

conquerors  80 

Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs;   he 

chose 

A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 
Seemed  to  forget  —  yet  ne'er  forgot  —  the 

wife 

Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones, 
Butchered,  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his 


Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.     Thus 

arise 

Races  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength. 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of 

God 
Fills  them,  or  is  withdrawn.    The  red  man, 

too, 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so 

long,  90 

And,  nearer  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wilder  hunting-ground.  The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  j.ar  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave 

back 
The  white  man's  face  —  among  Missouri's 

springs, 

And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregon  — 

He  rears  his  little  Venice.    In  these  plains 

!  The  bison  feeds  no  more.    Twice  twenty 

leagues 


Roams  the   majestic  brute,  in   herds 

shake  ioo 

The  earth  with  thundering  steps  —  yet  here 
I  meet 

His  ancient  footprints  stamped  beside  the 
pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 
And   birds,  that  scarce   have  learned  the 

fear  of  man, 

Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.   The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.   The 

bee, 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man.   no 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


With   whom   he   came   across  the  eastern 

deep, 

Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  dale.    I  listen  long 
To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 
The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 
Which  soon  shall  fill  these  deserts.   From 

the  ground 
Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft 

voice 
Of  maidens,  and   the   sweet   and    solemn 

hymn 

Of  Sabbath  worshippers.   The  low  of  herds 
Blends   with   the    rustling   of    the   heavy 

grain  121 

Over  the  dark  brown  furrows.     All  at  once 
A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by,  and  breaks  my 

dream, 

And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 
1832.  1833. 


THE   BATTLE-FIELD 

ONCE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave  — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird,  10 

And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering 

wain; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry, 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again  ! 

Soon  rested  those  TH'JO  fought;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life.  20 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year, 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 

Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 


Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot. 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown  —  yet   faint  thou 
not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 

The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn;         20 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again, 
Th'  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers; 

But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 

Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here.         40 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 

1837.  1837 


THE    ANTIQUITY    OF    FREEDOM 

HERE  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  and  gnarled 

pines, 
That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses;  here 

the  ground 
Was  never  trenched  by  spade,  and  flowers 

spring  up 

Unsown,   and  die  ungathered.   It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 
And   leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks, 

and  winds 
That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter,'  as  they 

pass, 

A  fragrance  from  the  cedars,  thickly  set 
With  pale-blue  berries.     In  these  peaceful 

shades  — 

Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old —  10 
My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of 

years, 
Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  liberty. 

O   FREEDOM  !    thou  art  not,   as    poets 

dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate 

limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


With   which  the  Roman  master   crowned 

his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded 

man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou;   one  mailed 

hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword ; 

thy  brow, 

Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 

With   tokens   of    old   wars;    thy   massive 

.  limbs  21 

Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee 

has  launched 
His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten 

thee; 
They-  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast 

from  heaven; 
Merciless    Power    has   dug   thy    dungeon 

deep, 
And   his   swart   armorers,  bv  a   thousand 

fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain;  yet,  while  he  deems 

thee  bound, 

The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison-walls 
Fall  outward ;  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return  31 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor 

flies. 

Thy  birthright  was  not  given  by  human 

hands: 

Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.    In  plea- 
sant fields, 
While  yet   our  race   was  few,  thou  sat'st 

with  him, 

To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 
His   only  foes;   and  thou  with  him  didst 
draw  40 

The  earliest  furrow  on  the  mountain-side, 
Soft  with  the  deluge.    Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  than  thou;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse 

of  years, 

But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age  — 
Feebler,  yet  subtler.     He  shall  weave  his 

snares,  so 


And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and 

clap 
His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush 

call 
His  hordes  to   fall   upon  thee.     He    shall 

send 
Quaint  maskers,  wearing  fair  and  gallant 

forms 
To  catch   thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful 

words 
To  charm  thy  ear;  while  his  sly  imps,  by 

stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light 

thread  on  thread, 
That  grow    to   fetters;  or  bind  down  thy 

arms 
With   chains  concealed  in  chaplets.     Oh  ! 

not  yet 

Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  nor  lay- 
by 60 
Thy  sword;  nor  yet,  O  Freedom  !  close  thy 

lids 

In  slumber;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps, 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the 

day 
Of  the  new  earth  and  heaven.   But  wouldst 

thou  rest 
Awhile    from    tumult   and   the   frauds   of 

men, 

These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.    They,  while  yet  the  forest-trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were 

new, 

Beheld    thy    glorious   childhood,   and    re- 
joiced. 70 
1842.                                                                   1842. 


'O  MOTHER   OF   A   MIGHTY 
RACE  ' 

O  MOTHER  of  a  mighty  race, 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace  ! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years. 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red; 
Thy  step  —  the  wild-deer's  rustling  feet 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet;    ic 

Thy  hopeful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Ay,  let  them  rail  —  those  haughty  ones, 
While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 
They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 
How  many  a  fond  and  fearless  heart 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  witli  thy  children  bide;         20 
How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley-shades ; 

What  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen;  — 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  West; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered, 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared, 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean  border  foams.          30 

There 's  freedom  at  thy  gates  and  rest 
For  Earth's  down-trodden  and  opprest, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head, 
For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds, 
Stops  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 

O  fair  young  mother  !    on  thy  brow 

Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 

Deep  in  the  brightness  of  the  skies 

The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise,  40 

And,  as  they  fleet, 
Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

Thine  eye,  with  every  coming  hour, 
Shall  brighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower; 
And  when  thy  sisters,  elder  born, 
Would   bran^   thy   name    with   words    of 
scorn, 

Before  thine  eye, 

Upon  their  lips  the  taunt  shall  die. 
1846.  1847. 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE- 
TREE 

COME,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
Cleave   the    tough    greensward    with   the 

spade ; 

Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made ; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 


As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet, 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet; 
So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ?         ic 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays; 
Boughs  where    the   thrush,   with   crimson 

breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs        20 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard-row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon,  30 

And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While    children    come,   with    cries    of 

glee, 

And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage-hearth,        41 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew;    $o 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day, 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 


23 


Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie,  61 

The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still  ? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears          7o 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  little  apple-tree  ? 

'  Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree  ? ' 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them: 

'  A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times; 
'T  is  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes, 

On  planting  the  apple-tree.' 1  81 

1849.  1864. 

ROBERT   OF   LINCOLN 

MERRILY  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 

Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

1  Compare  a  letter  of  Bryant's  written  November  17, 
1846  (Godwin's  Life  of  Bryant,  vol.  ii,  pp.  27,  28) : 
'  I  have  been,  and  am,  at  my  place  on  Long*  Island, 
planting  and  transplanting  trees,  in  the  mist ;  sixty  or 
seventy  ;  some  for  shade  ;  most  for  fruit.  Hereafter, 
men,  whose  existence  is  at  present  merely  possible, 
will  gather  pears  from  the  trees  which  I  have  set  in 
the  ground,  and  wonder  what  old  covey  —  for  in  those 
days  the  slang  terms  of  the  present  time,  by  the  ordi- 
nary process  of  change  in  languages,  will  have  become 
classical  —  what  old  covey  of  past  ages  planted  them? 
Or  they  will  walk  in  the  shade  of  the  mulberry,  apricot, 
and  cherry  trees  that  I  have  set  in  a  row  beside  a  green 
lane,  and  think,  if  they  think  at  all  about  the  matter 
—  for  who  can  tell  what  the  great-grandchildren  of  ours 
will  think  about  —  that  they  sprang  up  of  themselves  by 
tlw  way.' 


Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  drest,    10 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat; 
White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty    and    quiet,    with    plain    brown 
wings,  2C 

Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband 
sins 


i'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spiuk,  spank,  spink; 

Brood,  kind  creature;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he,    y 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can  . 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might:     $c 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry' brood 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link,"  54 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
This  new  life  is  likely  tc  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Half  forgotten  that  merry  air: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spauk,  spink;  60 

Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes;  the  children  are  grown; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows; 
Robert  of  Lincoln 's  a  humdrum  crone ; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spauk,  spink; 

When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain,  70 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 
1855.  1855. 


OUR   COUNTRY'S    CALL 

LAY  down  the  axe ;  fling  by  the  spade ; 

Leave  in  its  track  the  toiling  plough; 
The  rifle  and  the  bayonet-blade 

For  arms  like  yours  were  fitter  now; 
And  let  the  hands  that  ply  the  pen 

Quit  the  light  task,  and  learn  to  wield 
The  horseman  s  crooked  brand,  and  rein 

The  charger  on  the  battle-field. 

Our  country  calls;  away  !  away  ! 

To   where  the   blood-stream    blots   the 
green.  10 

Strike  to  defend  the  gentlest  sway 

That  Time  in  all  his  course  has  seen. 
See,  from  a  thousand  coverts  —  see, 

Spring  the  armed  foes  that  haunt   her 

track; 
They  rush  to  smite  her  down,  and  we 

Must  beat  the  banded  traitors  back. 

Ho  !  sturdy  as  the  oaks  ye  cleave, 

And  moved  as  soon  to  fear  and  flight, 
Men  of  the  glade  and  forest  !  leave 

Your  woodcraft  for  the  field  of  fight.    20 
The  arms  that  wield  the  axe  must  pour 

An  iron  tempest  on  the  foe ; 
His  serried  ranks  shall  reel  before 

The  arm  that  lays  the  panther  low. 

And  ye  who  breast  the  mountain-storm 
By  grassy  steep  or  highland  lake, 

Come,  for  the  laud  ye  love,  to  form 
A  bulwark  that  no  foe  can  break. 

Stand,  like  your  own  gray  cliffs  that  mock 


The  whirlwind,  stand  in  her  defence:    30 
The  blast  as  soon  shall  move  the  rock 
As  rushing  squadrons  bear  ye  thence. 

And  ye  whose  homes  are  by  her  grand 

Swift  rivers,  rising  far  away, 
Come  from  the  depth  of  her  green  land, 

As  mighty  in  your  march  as  they; 
As  terrible  as  when  the  rains 

Have  swelled  them  over  bank  and  bourne, 
With  sudden  floods  to  drown  the  plains 

And  sweep  along  the  woods  uptorn.        40 

And  ye  who  throng,  beside  the  deep, 

Her  ports  and  hamlets  of  the  strand, 
In  number  like  the  waves  that  leap 

On  his  long-murmuring  marge  of  sand  — 
Come  like  that  deep,  when,  o'er  his  brim, 

He  rises,  all  his  floods  to  pour, 
And  flings  the  proudest  barks  that  swim, 

A  helpless  wreck,  against  the  shore  ! 

Few,  few  were  they  whose  swords  of  old 

Won  the  fair  land  in  which  we  dwell;  50 
But  we  are  many,  we  who  hold 

The  grim  resolve  to  guard  it  well. 
Strike,  for  that  broad  and  goodly  land, 

Blow  after  blow,  till  men  shall  see 
That  Might  and  Right  move  hand  in  hand, 

And  glorious  must  their  triumph  be  \ 
September,  1861.  1861 


THE    LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF  THE 
SNOW 

Alice.    One   of   your   old-world   stories. 

Uncle  John, 

Such  as  you  tell  us  by  the  winter  fire, 
Till  we  all  wonder  it  is  grown  so  late. 

Uncle  John.  The  story  of  the  witch  that 

ground  to  death 

Two  children  in  her  mill,  or  will  you  have 
The  tale  of  Goody  Cutpurse  ? 

Alice.  Nay,  now,  nayi 

Those  stories  are  too  childish,  Uncle  John, 
Too  childish  even  for  little  Willy  here, 
And  I  am  older,  two  good  years,  than  he; 
No,  let  us  have  a  tale  of  elves  that  ride,  10 
By  night,  with  jingling  reins,  or  gncines  o* 

the  mine, 

Or  water-fairies,  such  as  you  know  how 
To  spin,  till  Willy's  eyes  forget  to  wink, 
And  good  Aunt  Mary,  busy  as  she  is. 
Lays  down  her  knitting. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


Uncle  John.  Listen  to  me,  then. 

T  was  in  the  olden  time,  long,  long  ago, 
And  long  before  the  great  oak  at  our  door 
Was  yet  an  acorn,  on  a  mountain's  side 
Lived,  with  his  wife,  a  cottager.  They  dwelt 
Beside  a  glen  and  near  a  dashing  brook,  2o 
A  pleasant  spot  in  spring,  where  first  the 

wren 

Was  heard  to  chatter,  and,  among  the  grast. 
Flowers  opened  earliest;  but  when  winter 

came, 
That  little  brook  was  fringed  with  other 

flowers,  — 
White  flowers,  with  crystal  leaf  and  stem, 

that  grew 

In  clear  November  nights.    And,  later  still, 
That  mountain-glen  was  filled  with  drifted 

snows 
From   side  to  side,  that   one   might  walk 

across ; 
While,  many  a   fathom   deep,   below,  the 

brook 

Sang  to  itself,  and  leaped  and  trotted  on  30 

Unfrozen,  o'er  its  pebbles,  toward  the  vale. 

Alice.  A  mountain-side,   you    said;    the 

Alps,  perhaps, 
Or  our  own  Alleghanies. 

Uncle  John.  Not  so  fast, 

My  young  geographer,  for  then  the  Alps, 
With  their  broad  pastures,  haply  were  un- 

trod 

Of  herdsman's  foot,  and  never  human  voice 
Had  sounded  in  the  woods  that  overhang 
Our  Alleghanies'  streams.    I  think  it  was 
Upon  the  slopes  of  the  great  Caucasus, 
Or  where  the  rivulets  of  Ararat  4o 

Seek  the  Armenian  vales.     That  mountain 

rose 

So  high,  that,  on  its  top,  the  winter  snow 
Was  never  melted,  and  the  cottagers 
Among  the  summer  blossoms,  far  below, 
Saw  its  white  peaks  in  August  from  their 

door. 

One  little  maiden,  in  that  cottage-home, 
Dwelt  with  her  parents,  light  of  heart  and 

limb. 
Bright,  restless,  thoughtless,  flitting   here 

and  there, 

Like  sunshine  on  the  uneasy1  ocean-waves, 
And  sometimes  she  forgot  what  she  was  bid, 
As  Alice  does. 

Alice.  Or  Willy,  quite  as  oft.      51 

Uncle  John.  But  you  are  older,  Alice,  two 

good  years, 
And  should  be  wiser.    Eva  was  the  name 


Of  this  young  maiden,  now  twelve  summers 

old. 
Now  you  must  know  that,  in  those  early 

timea, 
When  autumn  days  grew  pale,  there  came 

a  troop 
Of  childlike  forms  from  that  cold  mountain- 


top; 
;railin 


With  trailing  garments  through  the  air  they 

came, 
Or  walked  the  ground  with  girded  loins, 

and  threw 

Spangles  of  silvery  frost  upon  the  grass,  60 
And  edged  the  brooks  with  glistening  para- 
pets, 
And  built  it  crystal  bridges,  touched  the 

pool, 
And    turned    its    face   to  glass,  or,  rising 

thence, 
They  shook  from  their  full  laps  the  soft, 

light  snow, 
And  -buried   the   great   earth,  as   autumn 

winds 

Bury  the  forest-floor  in  heaps  of  leaves. 
A  beautiful  race  were  they,  with  baby 

brows, 
And  fair,  bright  locks,  and  voices  like  the 

sound 
Of  steps  on  the  crisp  snow,  in  which  thev 

talked 
With  man,  as  friend  with  friend.    A  merry 

sight  70 

It  was,  when,  crowding  round  the  traveller, 
They  smote  him  with  their  heaviest  snow- 
flakes,  flung 

Needles  of  frost  in  handfuls  at  his  cheeks, 
And,  of  the  light  wreaths  of  his  smoking 

breath, 
Wove  a  white  fringe  for  his  brown  beard, 

and  laughed 
Their  slender  laugh  to  see   him  wink  and 

grin 

And  make  grim  faces  as  he  floundered  on. 
But,  when  the  spring  came  on,  what  ter- 
ror reigned 

Among  these  Little  People  of  tha  Snow  ! 
To  them  the  sun's  warm  beams  were  shafts 

of  fire,  80 

And  the  soft  south-wind  was  the  wind  of 

death. 

Away  they  flew,  all  with  a  pretty  scowl 
Upon  their  childish  faces,  to  the  north, 
Or  scampered  upward  to  the  mountain's 

top, 
And  tbere  defied  their  enemy,  the  Spring? 


26 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Skipping  and  dancing  on  the  frozen  peaks, 

And   moulding   little   snow-balls   in   their 
palms, 

And  rolling  them,  to  crush  her  flowers  be- 
low, ,  88 

Down  the  steep  snow-fields. 

Alice.  That,  too,  must  have  been 

A  merry  sight  to  look  at. 

Uncle  John.  You  are  right, 

But  I  must  speak  of  graver  matters  now. 
Midwinter  was  the  time,  and  Eva  stood, 

Within  the  cottage,  all  prepared  to  dare 

The  outer  cold,  with  ample  furry  robe 

Close-belted  round  her  waist,  and  boots  of 
fur, 

And  a  broad  kerchief,  which  her  mother's 
hand 

Had  closely  drawn  about  her  ruddy  cheek. 

'  Now,   stay   not    long    abroad,'   said    the 
good  dame, 

'  For  sharp  is  the  outer  air,  and,  mark  me 
well, 

Go  not  upon  the  snow  beyond  the  spot     100 

Where  the  great  linden  bounds  the  neigh- 
boring field.' 

The  little   maiden   promised,  and   went 
forth, 

And  climbed  the  rounded  snow-swells  firm 
with  frost 

Beneath  her  feet,  and  slid,  with  balancing 
arms, 

Into  the  hollows.   Once,  as  up  a  drift 

She  slowly  rose,  before  her,  in  the  way, 

She  saw  a  little  creature,  lily-cheeked, 

With  flowing  flaxen  locks,  and  faint  blue 
eyes, 

That  gleamed  like  ice,  and  robe  that  only 
seemed 

Of  a   more   shadowy   whiteness   than   her 
cheek.  no 

On  a  smooth  bank  she  sat. 

Alice.  She  must  have  been 

One  of  your  Little  People  of  the  Snow. 
Uncle  John.  She   was   so,   and,   as   Eva 
now  drew  near, 

The  tiny  creature  bounded  from  her  seat; 

4 And  come,'  she  said,  'my  pretty  friend; 
to-day 

We   will  be  playmates.     I  have  watched 
thee  long, 

And  seen  how  well  thou  lov'st  to  walk  these 
drifts, 

And  scoop  their  fair  sides  into  little  cells, 

And  carve  them  with  quaint  figures,  huge- 
limbed  men,  119 


Lions,  and  griffins.    We  will  have,  to-day, 
A  merry  ramble  over  these  bright  fields, 
And  thou  shalt  see  what  thou  hast  never 

seen.' 
On  went  the  pair,  until  they  reached  the 

bound 
Where  the  great  linden  stood,  set  deep  in 

snow, 
Up  to  the   lower    branches.      '  Here   we 

stop,' 

Said  Eva,  '  for  my  mother  has  my  word 
That  I  will  go  no  farther  than  this  tree.' 
Then  the  snow-maiden  laughed:  'And 

what  is  this  ? 
This  fear  of   the  pure  snow,  the  innocent 

snow, 
That  never  harmed  aught  living?     Thou 

mayst  roam  J3o 

For  leagues  beyond  this  garden,  and  return 
In  safety ;  here  the  grim  wolf  never  prowls, 
And  here  the  eagle  of  our  mountain-crags 
Preys   not    in   winter.     I   will    show    the 

way, 
And  bring  thee  safely  home.     Thy  mother, 

sure, 
Counselled  thee  thus  because  thou  hadst  no 

guide.' 
By  such  smooth  words  was  Eva  won  to 

break 
Her  promise,  and  went  on  with   her  new 

friend, 

Over  the  glistening  snow  and  down  a  bank 
Where  a  white  shelf,  wrought  by  the  eddy- 
ing wind,  140 
Like  to  a  billow's  crest  in  the  great  sea, 
Curtained   an  opening.     '  Look,  we   enter 

here.' 
And  straight,  beneath  the  fair  o'erhanging 

Entered  the  little  pair  that  hill  of  snow, 
Walking  along  a  passage  with  white  walls, 
And  a  white  vault  above  where  snow-stars 

shed 

A  wintry  twilight.   Eva  moved  in  awe, 
And  held  her  peace,  but  the  snow-maiden 

smiled, 
And  talked  and  tripped  along,  as  down  the 

way, 

Deeper  they  went  into   that   mountainous 

drift.  15° 

And  now  the  white  walls  widened,  and 

the  vault 

Swelled  upward,  like  some  vast  cathedral- 
dome, 
Such  as  the  Florentine,  who  bore  the  name 


WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT 


27 


Of    heaven's   most    potent   angel,   reared 

long  since, 
Or  the  unknown  builder  of  that  wondrous 

fane, 

The  glory  of  Burgos.    Here  a  garden  lay, 
In  which  the  Little  People  of  the  Snow 
Were   wont   to   take   their   pastime  when 

their  tasks 

Upon  the  mountain's  side  and  in  the  clouds 
Were  ended.    Here  they  taught  the  silent 

frost  i 60 

To  mock,  in  stem  and  spray,  and  leaf  and 

flower, 
The  growths  of  summer.    Here  the   palm 

upreared 
Its  white    columnar    trunk    and    spotless 

sheaf 
Of  plume-like  leaves;  here  cedars,  huge  as 

those 
Of    Lebanon,    stretched    far    their    level 

boughs, 

Yet  pale  and  shadowless;  the  sturdy  oak 
Stood,  with  its  huge  gnarled  roots  of  seem- 
ing strength, 
Fast  anchored  in  the  glistening  bank;  light 

sprays 

Of  myrtle,  roses  in  their  bud  and  bloom, 
Drooped   by   the    winding   walks;  yet   all 

seemed  wrought  170 

Of  stainless  alabaster;  up  the  trees 
Ran   the   lithe   jessamine,  with   stalk  and 

leaf 

Colorless  as  her  flowers.     '  Go  softly  on,' 
Said   the   snow-maiden;    'touch   not,   with 

thy  hand, 

The  frail  creation  round  thee,  and  beware 
To  sweep  it   with  thy  skirts.     Now  look 

above. 
How  sumptuously  these  bowers  are  lighted 

up 
With  shifting  gleams  that  «oftly  come  and 

go  ! 
These  are  the  northern  lights,  such  as  thou 

seest 
In  the  midwinter  nights,  cold,  wandering 

flames,  180 

That  float   with  our  processions,  through 

the  air; 

And  here,  within  our  winter  palaces, 
Mimic  the  glorious  daybreak.'     Then  she 

told 
How,  when  the  wind,  in  the  long   winter 

nights, 

Swept  the  light  snows  into  the  hollow  dell, 
She  and  her  comrades  guided  to  its  place 


Each    wandering    flake,   and    piled   them 

quaintly  up, 

In  shapely  colonnade  and  glistening  arch, 
With  shadowy  aisles  between,  or  bade  them 

grow,  ,89 

Beneath  their  little  hands,  to  bowery  walks 
In  gardens  such  as  these,  and,  o'er  them  all, 
Built  the  broad  roof.  '  But  thou  hast  yet 

to  see 

A  fairer  sight,'  she  said,  and  led  the  way 
To  where  a  window  of  pellucid  ice 
Stood   in   the   wall   of  snow,  beside  theii 

path. 
'  Look,  but   thou   mayst  not  enter.'     Eva 

looked, 
And  lo  !  a  glorious  hall,  from  whose  high 

vault 
Stripes  of  soft  light,   ruddy  and   delicate 

green, 
And  tender  blue,  flowed  downward  to  the 

floor 

An  1  far  around,  as  if  the  aerial  hosts,  ion 
That  march  on  high  by  night,  with  beamy 

spears, 
And  streaming  banners,  to  that  place  had 

brought 

Their  radiant  flags  to  grace  a  festival. 
And  in  that  hall  a  joyous  multitude 
Of  those  by  whom  its  glistening  walls  were 

reared, 

Whirled  in  a  merry  dance  to  silvery  sounds, 
That  rang  from  cymbals  of  transparent  ice, 
And  ice-cups,  quivering  to  the  skilful  touch 
Of  little  fingers.  Round  and  round  they 

flew, 

As  when,  in  spring,  about  a  chimney-top, 
A  cloud  of   twittering   swallows,  just   re* 

turned,  211 

W^heel  round  and  round,  and  turn  and  wheel 

again, 

Unwinding  their  swift  track.    So  rapic 
Flowed  the  meandering  stream  of 

dance, 
Beneath  that  dome  of  light.     Bright  eyes 

that  looked 

From  under  lily-brows,  and  gauzy  scarfs 
Sparkling  like  snow-wreaths  in   the  early 

sun, 

Shot  by  the  window  in  their  mazy  whirl. 
And   there   stood  Eva,  wondering   at   the 

sight 
Of  those  bright  revellers  and  that  graceful 

sweep  220 

Of  motion  as  they  passed  her;  —  long  she 

gazed, 


28 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And  listened  long  to  the  sweet  sounds  that 

thrilled 
The  frosty  air,  till  now   the   encroaching 

cold 
Recalled  her  to  herself.     '  Too  long,  too 

long 

I  linger  here,'  she  said,  and  then  she  sprang 
Into  the  path,  and  with  a  hurried  step 
Followed  it  upward.    Ever  by  her  side 
Her  little   guide  kept  pace.     As  on  they 

went, 
Eva  bemoaned  her  fault:  '  What  must  they 

think  —  229 

The  dear  ones  in  the  cottage,  while  so  long, 
Hour  after  hour,  I  stay  without  ?  I  know 
That  they  will  seek  me  far  and  near,  and 

weep 

To  find  me  not.    How  could  I,  wickedly, 
Neglect  the  charge  they  gave  me  ?  '    As 

she  spoke, 

The  hot  tears  started  to  her  eyes ;  she  knelt 
In  the  mid-path.  '  Father  !  forgive  this 

sin; 
Forgive    myself     I    cannot '  —  thus     she 

prayed, 
And  rose  and  hastened  onward.     When,  at 

last, 
They  reached  the  outer  air,  the  clear  north 

breathed 
A  bitter  cold,  from  which  she  shrank  with 

dread,  240 

But  the  snow-maiden  bounded  as  she  felt 
The  cutting  blast,  and   uttered   shouts  of 

j°y> 

And   skipped,  with  boundless   glee,    from 

drift  to  drift, 

And  danced  round  Eva,  as  she  labored  up 
The  mounds  of  snow.     '  Ah  me  !  I  feel  my 

eyes 
Grow  heavy,'  Eva  said ;    '  they  swim  with 

sleep; 

I  cannot  walk  for  utter  weariness, 
And  I  must  rest  a  moment  on  this  bank, 
But  let  it  not  be  long.'   As  thus  she  spoke, 
In   half-formed   words,    she   sank   on   the 

smooth  snow,  250 

With   closing  lids.     Her   guide   composed 

the  robe 

About  her  limbs,  and  said:  '  A  pleasant  spot 
Is  this  to  slumber  in ;  on  such  a  couch 
Oft  have  I  slept  away  the  winter  night, 
And  had  the  sweetest  dreams.'     So  Eva 

slept, 
But  slept  in  death ;  for  when  the  power  of 

frost 


Locks  up  the  motions  of  the  living  frame, 
The  victim  passes  to  the  realm  of  Death 
Through  the  dim  porch  of  Sleep.     The  little 

guide, 

Watching  beside  her,  saw  the  hues  of  life 
Fade    from    the    fair    smooth   brow   and 

rounded  cheek,  26i 

As   fades   the    crimson   from    a    morning 

cloud, 
Till  they  were  white   as  marble,  and  the 

breath 
Had  ceased  to  come  and  go,  yet  knew  she 

not 
At  first  that  this  was  death.   But  when  she 

marked 

How  deep  the  paleness  was,  how  motionless 
That  once  lithe  form,  a  fear  came  over  her. 
She  strove  to  wake  the  sleeper,  plucked  her 

robe, 

And  shouted  in  her  ear,  but  all  in  vain; 
The  life  had  passed  away  from  those  young 

limbs.  270 

Then   the   snow-maiden   raised   a   wailing 

Such  as  the  dweller  in  some  lonely  wild, 
Sleepless  through  all  the   long  December 

night, 
Hears  when  the  mournful  East  begins  to 

blow. 
But   suddenly  was   heard  the  sound  of 

steps, 

Grating  on  the  crisp  snow;   the  cottagers 
Were  seeking  Eva;  from  afar  they  saw 
The  twain,  and  hurried  toward  them.     As 

they  came 

With  gentle  chidings  ready  on  their  lips, 
And  marked  that  deathlike  sleep,  and  heard 

the  tale  280 

Of  the  snow-maiden,  mortal  anguish  fell 
Upon  their  hearts,  and  bitter  words  of  grief 
And   blame  were   uttered:    '  Cruel,    cruel 

one, 

To  tempt  our  daughter  thus,  and  cruel  we, 
Who  suffered  her  to  wander  forth  alone 
In  this  fierce  cold  ! '     They  lifted  the  dear 

child, 
And  bore  her  home  and  chafed  her  tender 

limbs, 
And  strove,  by  all   the   simple   arts   they 

knew, 
To  make  the  chilled  blood  move,  and  win 

the  breath 

Back  to  her  bosom;  fruitlessly  they  strove, 
The  little  maid  was   dead.     In  blank  de- 
spair 291 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


They  stood,  and  gazed  at  her  who  never 

more 
Should  look  on  them.     4  Why  die  we  not 

with  her  ? ' 

They  said;  'Without  her,  life  is  bitterness.' 
Now  came  the  funeral-day;  the  simple 

folk 

Of  all  that  pastoral  region  gathered  round 
To  share  the  sorrow  of  the  cottagers. 
They  carved  a  way  into  the  mound  of  snow 
To  the  glen's  side,  and  dug  a  little  grave 
In  the  smooth  slope,  and,  following  the  bier, 
In  long  procession  from  the  silent  door,  301 
Chanted  a  sad  and  solemn  melody: 

4  Lay  her  away  to  rest  within  the  ground. 
Yea,  lay  her  down  whose  pure  and  innocent 

life 
Was  spotless  as  these  snows;  for  she  was 

reared 
In  love,  and  passed  in  love  life's  pleasant 

spring, 
And  all  that  now  our   tenderest  love  can 

do 

Is  to  give  burial  to  her  lifeless  limbs.' 
They  paused.     A  thousand  slender  voices 

round,  309 

Like  echoes  softly  flung  from  rock  and  hill, 
Took  up  the  strain,  and  all  the  hollow  air 
Seemed  mourning   for   the   dead;   for,  on 

that  day, 

The  Little  People  of  the  Snow  had  come, 
From  mountain-peak,  and  cloud,  and   icy 

hall, 

To  Eva's  burial.    As  the  murmur  died, 
The  funeral-train  renewed  the  solemn  chant: 
4  Thou,  Lord,  hast  taken  her  to  be  with 

Eve, 
Whose  gentle  name  was  given  her.    Even 

so, 

For  so  thy  wisdom  saw  that  it  was  best 
For  her  and  us.     We  bring  our   bleeding 

hearts,  320 

And  ask   the  touch  of   healing   from  thy 

hand, 

As,  with  submissive  tears,  we  render  back 
The  lovely  and  beloved  to  Him  who  gave.' 
They  ceased.     Again  the  plaintive  mur- 
mur rose. 
From  shadowy  skirts  of  low-hung  cloud  it 

came, 
And  wide  white  fields,  and  fir-trees  capped 

with  snow, 
Shivering  to  the  sad  sounds.     They  sank 

away 
To  silence  in  the  dim-seen  distant  woods. 


The  little  grave  was  closed;  the  funeral- 
train 

Departed;  winter  wore  away;  the  Spring 
Steeped,   with   her   quickening   rayis,   the 

violet-tufts,  331 

By  fond  hands  planted  where  the  maiden 

slept. 

But,  after  Eva's  burial,  never  more 
The  Little  People  of  the  Snow  were  seen 
By  human  eye,  nor  ever  human  ear 
Heard  from  their   lips  articulate   speech 

again; 

For  a  decree  went  forth  to  cut  them  off, 
Forever,  from  communion  with  mankind. 
The  winter-clouds,  along  the  mountainside, 
Rolled  downward  toward  the  vale,  but  no 

fair  form  340 

Leaned   from  their   folds,  and,  in  the  icy 

glens, 

And  aged  woods,  under  snow-loaded  pines, 
Where  once  they  made  their  haunt,  was 

emptiness. 
But  ever,   when  the  wintry   days  drew 

near, 

Around  that  little  grave,  in  the  long  night, 
Frost- wreaths  were  laid  and  tufts  of  silvery 

rime 
In  shape  like  blades  and   blossoms  of  the 

field 
As  one  would  scatter  flowers  upon  a  bier. 


THE   POET 

THOU  who  wouldst  wear  the  name 

Of  poet  'mid  thy  brethren  of  mankind, 

And  clothe  in  words  of  flame 

Thoughts  that  shall  live  within  the  gen- 
eral mind  ! 

Deem  not  the  framing  of  a  deathless  lay 

The  pastime  of  a  drowsy  summer  day. 

But  gather  all  thy  powers, 

And  wreak  them  on  the  verse,  that  thou 

dost  weave, 
And  in  thy  lonely  hours, 

At  silent  morning  or  at  wakeful  eve,     10 
While  the  warm  current  tingles  through 

thy  veins 

Set    forth    the    burning   words    in   fluent 
strains. 

No  smooth  array  of  phrase, 

Artfully  sought  and  ordered  though  it  be, 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Which  the  cold  rhymer  lays 

Upon  his  page  with  languid  industry, 
Can    wake    the    listless   pulse   to  livelier 

speed, 
Or   fill  with   sudden   tears   the  eyes  that 

read. 

The  secret  wouldst  thou  know 

To  touch  the  heart  or  fire  the  blood  at 
will  ?  20 

Let  thine  own  eyes  o'erflow ; 

Let  thy  lips  quiver  with  the  passionate 

thrill; 
Seize  the  great  thought,  ere  yet  its  power 

be  past, 
And  bind,  in  words,  the  fleet  emotion  fast. 

Then,  should  thy  verse  appear 

Halting     and    harsh,    and    all    unaptly 

wrought, 
Touch  the  crude  line  with  fear, 

Save    in    the    moment    of   impassioned 

thought; 
Then  summon  back  the  original  glow,  and 

mend 
The  strain  with  rapture  that  with  fire  was 


Yet  let  no  empty  gust 

Of  passion  find  an  utterance  in  thy  lay, 
A  blast  that  whirls  the  dust 

Along  the  howling  street  and  dies  away; 
But  feelings  of  calm   power   and   mighty 

sweep, 

Like  currents  journeying  through  the  wind- 
less deep. 

Seek'st  thou,  in  living  lays, 

To  limn  the   beauty  of  *.he  earth  and 

sky? 
Before  thine  inner  gaze 

Let  all  that  beauty  in  clear  vision  lie ;   40 
Look  on  it  with  exceeding  love,  and  write 
The   words   inspired  by  wonder  and  de- 
light. 

Of  tempests  wouldst  thou  sing, 

Or  tell  of  battles  —  make  thyself  a  part 
Of  the  great  tumult;  cling 

To  the  tossed  wreck  with  terror  in  thy 

heart; 

Scale,  with  the  assaulting  host,  the  ram- 
part's height, 
And   strike   and   struggle   in  the  thickest 


So  shalt  thou  frame  a  lay 

That  haply  may  endure  from  age  to  age, 

And  they  who  read  shall  say:  <;« 

'  What  witchery  hangs  upon  this  poet's 

page  ! 

What  art  is  his  the  written  spells  to  find 
That  swa'y  from  mood  to  mood  the  willing 

mind  ! ' 
1863.  1864. 


MY  AUTUMN  WALK 

ON  woodlands  ruddy  with  autumn 

The  amber  sunshine  lies; 
I  look  on  the  beauty  round  me, 

And  tears  come  into  my  eyes. 

For  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  meadows 
Blows  out  of  the  far  Southwest, 

Where  our  gallant  men  are  fighting, 
And  the  gallant  dead  are  at  rest. 

The  golden-rod  is  leaning, 

And  the  purple  aster  waves  i 

In  a  breeze  from  the  land  of  battles, 

A  breath  from  the  land  of  graves. 

Full  fast  the  leaves  are  dropping 
Before  that  wandering  breath; 

As  fast,  on  the  field  of  battle, 
Our  brethren  fall  in  death. 

Beautiful  over  my  pathway 

The  forest  spoils  are  shed; 
They  are  spotting  the  grassy  hillocks 

With  purple  and  gold  and  red.  3 

Beautiful  is  the  death-sleep 

Of  those  who  bravely  fight 
111  their  country's  holy  quarrel, 

And  perish  for  the  Right. 

But  who  shall  comfort  the  living, 
The  light  of  whose  homes  is  gone: 

The  bride  that,  early  widowed, 
Lives  broken-hearted  on; 

The  matron  whose  sons  are  lying 

In  graves  on  a  distant  shore ;  3 

The  maiden,  whose  promised  husband 
Comes  back  from  the  war  no  more  ? 

I  look  on  the  peaceful  dwellings 
Whose  windows  glimmer  in  sight, 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


With  croft  and  garden  and  orchard, 
That  bask  in  the  mellow  light; 

And  I  know  that,  when  our  couriers 

With  news  of  victory  come, 
They  will  bring  a  bitter  message 

Of  hopeless  grief  to  some.  4o 

Again  I  turn  to  the  woodlands, 

And  shudder  as  I  see 
The  mock-grape's  blood-red  banner 

Hung  out  on  the  cedar-tree; 

And  I  think  of  days  of  slaughter, 
And  the  night-sky  red  with  flames, 

On  the  Chattahoochee's  meadows, 
And  the  wasted  banks  of  the  James. 

Oh,  for  the  fresh  spring-season, 

When  the  groves  are  in  their  prime ;  50 

And  far  away  in  the  future 
Is  the  frosty  autumn-time  ! 

Oh,  for  that  better  season, 

When  the  pride  of  the  foe  shall  yield, 
And  the  hosts  of  God  and  Freedom 

March  back  from  the  well- won  field; 

And   the   matron  shall   clasp  her  first- 
born 

With  tears  of  joy  and  pride ; 
And  the  scarred  and  war-worn  lover 

Shall  claim  his  promised  bride  !          60 

The  leaves  are  swept  from  the  branches; 

But  the  living  buds  are  there, 
With  folded  flower  and  foliage, 

To  sprout  in  a  kinder  air. 
October,  1864.  January,  1865. 


THE   DEATH    OF    LINCOLN1 

OH,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 
Gentle  and  merciful  and  just ! 

Who,  in  the  fear  of  God,  didst  bear 
The  sword  of  power,  a  nation's  trust  ! 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand, 
Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 

And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 
That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

1  Bryant  wrote  this  poem  for  the  day  when  Lin- 
coln's body  was  carried  in  funeral  procession  through 
the  streets  of  New  York  city. 


Thy  task  is  done ;  the  bond  are  free : 
We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave, 

Whose  proudest  monument  shall  be 
The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noble  host  of  those 

Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  Right. 

April,  1865.  January,  1866 

A   LIFETIME 

I  SIT  in  the  early  twilight, 

And,  through  the  gathering  shade, 

I  look  on  the  fields  around  me 
Where  yet  a  child  I  played. 

And  I  peer  into  the  shadows, 
Till  they  seem  to  pass  away, 

And  the  fields  and  their  tiny  brooklet 
Lie  clear  in  the  light  of  day. 

A  delicate  child  and  slender, 

With  locks  of  light-brown  hair,  is 

From  knoll  to  knoll  is  leaping 

In  the  breezy  summer  air. 

He  stoops  to  gather  blossoms 

Where  the  running  waters  shine; 

And  I  look  on  him  with  wonder, 
His  eyes  are  so  like  mine. 

I  look  till  the  fields  and  brooklet 

Swim  like  a  vision  by, 
And  a  room  in  a  lowly  dwelling 

Lies  clear  before  my  eye.  20 

There  stand,  in  the  clean-swept  fireplace, 
Fresh  boughs  from  the  wood  in  bloom 

And  the  birch-tree's  fragrant  branches 
Perfume  the  humble  room. 

And  there  the  child  is  standing 

By  a  stately  lady's  knee, 
And  reading  of  ancient  peoples 

And  realms  beyond  the  sea: 

Of  the  cruel  King  of  Egypt 

Who  made  God's  people  slaves,          30 
And  perished,  with  all  his  army, 

Drowned  in  the  Red  Sea  waves; 

Of  Deborah  who  mustered 
Her  brethren  long  oppressed, 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


And  routed  the  heathen  army, 
And  gave  her  people  rest; 

And  the  sadder,  gentler  story 

How  Christ,  the  crucified, 
With  a  prayer  for  those  who  slew  Him, 

Forgave  them  as  He  died.  4o 

I  look  again,  and  there  rises 

A  forest  wide  and  wild, 
And  in  it  the  boy  is  wandering, 

No  longer  a  little  child. 

He  murmurs  his  own  rude  verses 
As  he  roams  the  woods  alone; 

And  again  I  gaze  with  wonder, 
His  eyes  are  so  like  my  own. 

I  see  him  next  in  his  chamber, 

Where  he  sits  him  down  to  write        50 
The  rhymes  he  framed  in  his  ramble, 

And  he  cons  them  with  delight. 

A  kindly  figure  enters, 

A  man  of  middle  age, 
And  points  to  a  line  just  written, 

And  't  is  blotted  from  the  page. 

And  next,  in  a  hall  of  justice, 
Scarce  grown  to  manly  years, 

'Mid  the  hoary-headed  wranglers 

The  slender  youth  appears.  60 

With  a  beating  heart  he  rises, 

And  with  a  burning  cheek, 
And  the  judges  kindly  listen 

To  hear  the  young  man  speak. 

Another  change,  and  I  see  him 
Approach  his  dwelling-place, 

Where  a  fair-haired  woman  meets  him, 
With  a  smile  on  her  young  face  — 

A  smile  that  spreads  a  sunshine 

On  lip  and  cheek  and  brow;  70 

So  sweet  a  smile  there  is  not 
In  all  the  wide  earth  now. 

She  leads  by  the  hand  their  first-born, 

A  fair-haired  little  one, 
And  their  eyes  as  they  meet  him  sparkle 

Like  brooks  in  the  morning  sun. 

Another  change,  and  I  see  him 
Where  the  city's  ceaseless  coil 


Sends  up  a  mighty  murmur 

From  a  thousand  modes  of  toil.          So 

And  there,  'mid  the  clash  of  presses, 

He  plies  the  rapid  pen 
In  the  battles  of  opinion, 

That  divide  the  sons  of  men. 

I  look,  and  the  clashing  presses 
And  the  town  are  seen  no  more, 

But  there  is  the  poet  wandering 
A  strange  and  foreign  shore. 

He  has  crossed  the  mighty  ocean 

To  realms  that  lie  afar,  9c 

In  the  region  of  ancient  story, 
Beneath  the  morning  star. 

And  now  he  stands  in  wonder 

On  an  icy  Alpine  height; 
Now  pitches  his  tent  in  the  desert 

Where  the  jackal  yells  at  night; 

Now,  far  on  the  North  Sea  islands, 
Sees  day  on  the  midnight  sky, 

Now  gathers  the  fair  strange  fruitage 
Where  the  isles  of  the  Southland  lie. 

I  see  him  again  at  his  dwelling,  101 

Where,  over  the  little  lake, 
The  rose-trees  droop  in  their  beauty 

To  meet  the  image  they  make. 

Though  years  have  whitened  his  temples, 
His  eyes  have  the  first  look  still, 

Save  a  shade  of  settled  sadness, 
A  forecast  of  coming  ill. 

For  in  that  pleasant  dwelling, 

On  the  rack  of  ceaseless  pain,  no 

Lies  she  who  smiled  so  sweetly, 

And  prays  for  ease  in  vain. 

And  I  know  that  his  heart  is  breaking, 

When,  over  those  dear  eyes, 
The  darkness  slowly  gathers. 

And  the  loved  and  loving  dies. 

A  grave  is  scooped  on  the  hillside 
Where  often,  at  eve  or  morn, 

He  lays  the  blooms  of  the  garden  — 
He,  and  his  youngest  born.  120 

And  well  I  know  that  a  brightness 
From  his  life  has  passed  away, 


WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT 


33 


And  a  smile  from  the  green  earth's  beauty, 
And  a  glory  from  the  day. 

But  I  behold,  above  him, 

In  the  far  blue  deeps  of  air, 
Dim  battlements  shining  faintly, 

And  a  throng  of  faces  there ; 

See  over  crystal  barrier 

The  airy  figures  bend,  130 

Like  those  who  are  watching  and  wailing 

The  coming  of  a  friend. 

And  one  there  is  among  them, 

With  a  star  upon  her  brow, 
In  her  life  a  lovely  woman, 

A  sinless  seraph  now. 

I  know  the  sweet  calm  features; 

The  peerless  smile  I  know, 
And  I  stretch  my  arms  with  transport 

From  where  I  stand  below.  140 

And  the  quick  tears  drown  my  eyelids, 

But  the  airy  figures  fade, 
And  the  shining  battlements  darken 

And  blend  with  the  evening  shade. 

I  am  gazing  into  the  twilight 

Where  the  dim-seen  meadows  lie, 

And  the  wind  of  night  is  swaying 
The  trees  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

1876.  1876. 


THE   FLOOD   OF   YEARS 

A  MIGHTY  Hand,  from  an  exhaustless  Urn, 
Pours   forth  the   never-ending    Flood   of 

Years, 

Among  the  nations.  How  the  rushing  waves 
Bear  all  before  them  !     On  their  foremost 

edge, 

And  there  alone,  is  Life.  The  Present  there 
Tosses   and   foams,  and  fills  the  air  with 

roar 

Of  mingled  noises.  There  are  they  who  toil, 
And  they  who  strive,  and  they  who  feast, 

and  they 

Who  hurry  to  and  fro.  The  sturdy  swain  — 
Woodman  and  delver  with  the  spade  —  is 

there,  10 

And  busy  artisan  beside  his  bench, 
And  pallid  student  with  his  written  roll. 
A  moment  on  the  mounting  billow  seen, 


The  flood  sweeps  over  them  and  they  are 

gone. 
There  groups  of  revellers  whose  brows  are 

twined 

With  roses,  ride  the  topmost  swell  awhile, 
And  as  they  raise  their  flowing  cups  and 

touch 

The  clinking  brim  to  brim,  are  whirled  be- 
neath 

The  waves  and  disappear.   I  hear  the  jar 
Of  beaten  drums,  and  thunders  that  break 

forth  ao 

From  cannon,  where  the  advancing  billow 

sends 

Up  to  the  sight  long  files  of  armed  men, 
That  hurry  to  the  charge  through  flame  and 

smoke. 
The  torrent  bears  them  under,  whelmed  and 

hid 

Slayer  and  slain,  in  heaps  of  bloody  foam. 
Down  go  the  steed  and  rider,  the  plumed 

chief 
Sinks  with   his  followers;    the  head  that 

wears 

The  imperial  diadem  goes  down  beside 
The  felon's  with  cropped  ear  and  branded 

cheek. 

A  funeral-train  —  the  torrent  sweeps  awav 
Bearers   and  bier  and  mourners.     By  the 

bed  3I 

Of  one  who  dies  men  gather  sorrowing, 
And  women  weep  aloud ;   the  flood   rolls 

on; 


The  wail  is  stifled  and  the  sobbing  group 
Borne  under.     Hark  to  that  shrill,  sudden 

shout, 

The  cry  of  an  applauding  multitude, 
Swayed   by  some  loud-voiced   orator  who 

wields 

The  living  mass  as  if  he  were  its  soul ! 
The  waters  choke  the  shout  and  all  is  still. 
Lo  !  next  a  kneeling  crowd,  and  one  who 

spreads  4o 

The  hands  in  prayer  —  the  engulfing  wave 

o'ertakes 
And  swallows  them  and  him.     A  sculptor 

wields 

The  chisel,  and  the  stricken  marble  grows 
To  beauty;  at  his  easel,  eager-eyed, 
A  painter  stands,  and  sunshine  at  his  touch 
Gathers  upon  his  canvas,  and  life  glows ; 
A  poet,  as  he  paces  to  and  fro, 
Murmurs  his  sounding  lines.   Awhile  they 

ride 
The  advancing  billow,  till  its  tossing  crest 


34 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Strikes  them  and  flings  them  under,  while 

their  tasks  50 

Are  yet  unfinished.    See  a  mother  smile 
On  her  young  babe  that  smiles  to  her  again; 
The  torrent  wrests  it  from  her  arms;  she 

shrieks 
And  weeps,  and  midst  her  tears  is  carried 

down. 
A  beam  like  that  of  moonlight  turns  the 

spray 
To  glistening  pearls;  two   lovers,  hand  in 

hand, 

Rise  on  the  billowy  swell  and  fondly  look 
Into  each  other's  eyes.  The  rushing  flood 
Flings  them  apart:  the  youth  goes  down; 

the  maid 
With    hands    outstretched    in    vain,    and 

streaming  eyes,  60 

Waits  for  the  next   high  wave  to   follow 

him. 

An  aged  man  succeeds;  his  bending  form 
Sinks  slowly.  Mingling  with  the  sullen 

stream 
Gleam  the  white  locks,  and  then  are  seen 

no  more. 
Lo  !  wider  grows  the  stream  —  a  sea-like 

flood 

Saps  earth's  walled  cities;  massive  palaces 
Crumble  before  it;  fortresses  and  towers 
Dissolve    in    the    swift    waters;   populous 

realms 
Swept   by   the   torrent    see   their   ancient 

tribes 

Engulfed  and  lost;  their  very  languages  70 
Stifled,  and  never  to  be  uttered,  more. 
I  pause  and  turn  my  eyes,  and  looking 

back 
Where  that  tumultuous  flood  has  been,  I 

see 

The  silent  ocean  of  the  Past,  a  waste 
Of  waters  weltering  over  graves,  its  shores 
Strewn   with   the   wreck   of    fleets   where 

mast  and  hull 

Drop  away  piecemeal;  battlemented  walls 
Frown  idly,  green  with  moss,  and  temples 

stand 

Unroofed,  forsaken  by  the  worshipper. 
There  lie  memorial   stones,  whence   time 

has  gnawed  80 

The  graven  legends,  thrones  of  kings  o'er- 

turned, 

The  broken  altars  of  forgotten  gods, 
Foundations  of  old  cities  and  long  streets 
Where  never  fall  of  human  foot  is  heard, 
On  all  the  desolate  pavement.   I  behold 


Dim  glimmerings  of  lost  jewels,  far  within 
The  sleeping  waters,  diamond,  sardonyx, 
Ruby  and  topaz,  pearl  and  chrysolite, 
Once   glittering    at   the  banquet    on    fair 

brows 

That  long  ago  were  dust,  and  all  around  ^ 
Strewn  on  the  surface  of  that  silent  sea 
Are  withering  bridal  wreaths,  and  glossy 

locks 
Shorn  from  dear  brows,  by  loving  hands, 

and  scrolls 

O'erwritten,  haply  with  fond  words  of  love 
And   vows   of   friendship,  and  fair   pages 

flung 
Fresh  from   the    printer's   engine.     There 

they  lie 

A  moment,  and  then  sink  away  from  sight. 
I  look,  and  the  quick   tears  are  in  my 

eyes, 

For  I  behold  in  every  one  of  these 
A  blighted  hope,  a  separate  history  100 

Of  human  sorrows,  telling  of  dear  ties 
Suddenly  broken,  dreams  of  happiness 
Dissolved  in  air,  and  happy  days  too  brief 
That  sorrowfully  ended,  and  I  think 
How  painfully  must  the  poor  heart  have 

beat 

In  bosoms  without  number,  as  the  blow 
Was  struck  that  slew  their  hope  and  broke 

their  peace. 

Sadly  I  turn  and  look  before,  where  yet 
The  Flood  must  pass,  and  1  behold  a  mist 
Where  swarm  dissolving  forms,  the  brood 

of  Hope,  no 

Divinely  fair,  that  rest  on  banks  of  flowers, 
Or  wander  among  rainbows,  fading  soon 
And  reappearing,  haply  giving  place 
To  forms  of  grisly  aspect  such  as  Fear 
Shapes  from  the  idle  air  —  where  serpents 

lift 
The  head  to  strike,  and  skeletons  stretch 

forth 

The  bony  arm  in  menace.   Further  on 
A  belt  of  darkness  seems  to  bar  the  way, 
Long,  low,  and  distant,  where  the  Life  to 

come 
Touches   the  Life  that  is.     The  Flood  of 

Years  120 

Rolls  toward  it  near  and  nearer.   It  must 

pass 

That   dismal   barrier.     What  is  there  be- 
yond ? 
Hear  what  the  wise  and  good  have  said. 

Beyond 
That  belt  of  darkness,  still  the  Years  roil  on 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 


35 


More    gently,   but   with  not    less   mighty 

sweep. 

They  gather  up  again  and  softly  bear 
All  the  sweet  lives  that  late  were  over- 
whelmed 

And  lost  to  sight,  all  that  in  them  was  good, 
Noble,   and   truly    great,   and   worthy    of 
love  —  129 

The  lives  of  infants  and  ingenuous  youths, 
Sages  and  saintly  women  who  have  made 
Their  households  happy ;  all  are  raised  and 

borne 

By  that  great  current  in  its  onward  sweep, 
Wandering    and    rippling    with    caressing 

waves 

Around  green  islands  with  the  breath 
Of  flowers  that  never  wither.    So  they  pass 
From   stage    to   stage   along    the    shining 

course 

Of  that  bright  river,  broadening  like  a  sea 
As  its  smooth  eddies  curl  along  their  way. 


They  bring  old  friends  together;  hands  are 
clasped  140 

In  joy  unspeakable ;  the  mother's  arms 
Again  are  folded  round  the  child  she  loved 
And  lost.   Old  sorrows  are  forgotten  now, 
Or   but   remembered   to   make   sweet  the 

hour 
That  overpays  them;  wounded  hearts  that 

bled 

Or  broke  are  healed  forever.   In  the  room 
Of  this  grief-shadowed  present,  there  shall 

be 
A   Present   in   whose  reign  no  grief  shall 

gnaw 

The  heart,  and  never  shall  a  tender  tie 
Be   broken;  in    whose   reign    the'  eternal 
Change  150 

That  waits  on  growth  and  action  shall  pro- 
ceed 

With  everlasting  Concord  hand  in  hand. 
1876.  1876. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 


TAMERLANE1 

Knn>  solace  in  a  dying  hour  ! 2 

Such,  father,  is  not  (now)  my  theme  —  8 
I  will  not  madly  deem  that  power 

1 '  Tamerlane,'  which  first  appeared  in  1827  in  Tamer- 
lane and  Other  Poems,  was  entirely  re-written  for  Poe's 
•volume  of  1829,  A I  Aaraaf,  Tamerlane,  and  Minor 
Poems.  The  text  of  the  poem  as  here  given  is  practi- 
cally that  of  1829.  It  follows  the  edition  of  1845  (as 
given  in  the  Virginia  and  Stedmau-Woodberry  editions 
of  Poe's  works),  but  the  differences  of  this  edition  from 
that  of  1829  are  confined  (with  one  exception)  to  mat- 
ters of  punctuation  and  typography.  The  edition  of 
1831  offers  somewhat  greater  variations,  all  of  which  are 
carefully  recorded  in  the  notes  of  both  the  Virginia  and 
the  Stedman- Wood  berry  editions.  The  version  of  1827 
is  given  complete  in  the  notes  to  both  these  editions, 
and  may  also  be  found  in  Mr.  R.  H.  Shepherd's  complete 
reprint  of  the  1827  volume  (London,  1884). 

The  subject  of  the  poem,  not  very  clear  at  first  read- 
ing, is  the  evil  triumph  of  ambition  over  love,  illus- 
trated in  the  career  of  the  Mogul  emperor  Tamerlane, 
who,  according  to  the  story  as  conceived  by  Poe,  was 
born  a  shepherd,  left  his  mountain  home  and  his  early 
kr"<s  for  the  conquest  of  the  eastern  world,  and  returned 
«mly  to  find  that  his  love  had  died  of  his  neglect. 

The  well-worn  device  of  a  death-bed  narrative  to  the 
conventional  friar  is  lamely  excused  by  Poe  in  his  first 
note  to  the  1827  edition :  '  How  I  shall  account  for 
giving  him  "  a  friar  "  as  a  death-bed  confessor,  —  I  can- 
ret  exactly  determine.  He  wanted  some  one  to  listen 
to  his  tale  —  and  why  not  a  friar  ?  It  does  not  pass  the 
bounds  of  possibility,  — quite  sufficient  for  my  purpose, 
—  and  I  have  at  least  good  authority  on  my  side  for  such 
innovations.' 

2  The  beginning  of  the  poem  is  somewhat  clearer  in 
the  1827  version  :  — 

I  have  sent  for  thee,  holy  friar  ; 

But 't  was  not  with  the  drunken  hope, 

Which  is  but  agony  of  desire 

To  shun  the  fate,  with  which  to  cope 

Is  more  than  crime  may  dare  to  dream. 

That  I  have  call'd  thee  at  this  hour  : 

Such,  father,  is  not  my  theme  — 

Nor  am  I  mad.  to  deem  that  power 


But  hope  is  not  a  gift  of  thine 
If  I  can  hope  (O  God  !  I  can! 


The  gay  wall  of  this  gaudy  tower 
Grows  dim  around  me  — death  is  near. 
I  had  not  thought,  until  this  hour 
When  passing  from  the  earth,  that  ear 
Of  any,  were  it  not  the  shade 
Of  one  whom  in  life  I  made 


*  Poe's  o^n  somewhat  peculiar  punctuation  is  fol- 
lowed throughout,  as  given  in  the  Virginia  edition  of 
Poe's  Works.  Faithfulness  to  this  punctuation,  about 
which  Poe  was  particular,  makes  the  Virginia  edition, 
in  text,  superior  to  all  others. 


Of  Earth  may  shrive  me  of  the  sin 
Unearthly  pride  hath  revell'd  in  — 
I  have  no  time  to  dote  or  dream: 
You  call  it  hope  —  that  fire  of  fire! 
It  is  but  agony  of  desire: 
If  I  can  hope  —  O  God!  I  can  — 

Its  fount  is  holier  —  more  divine  —        i 
I  would  not  call  thee  fool,  old  man, 
But  such  is  not  a  gift  of  thine. 

Know  thou  the  secret  of  a  spirit 

Bow'd  from  its  wild  pride  into  shame. 

O  yearning  heart!  I  did  inherit 

Thy  withering  portion  with  the  fame. 

The  searing  glory  which  hath  shone 

Amid  the  Jewels  of  my  throne, 

Halo  of  Hell  !  and  with  a  pain 

Not  Hell  shall  make  me  fear  again  —       1 

0  craving  heart,  for  the  lost  flowers 
And  sunshine  of  my  summer  hours! 
The  undying  voice  of  that  dead  time, 
With  its  interminable  chime, 
Rings,  in  the  spirit  of  a  spell, 
Upon  thy  emptiness  —  a  knell. 

1  have  not  always  been  as  now: 
The  fever'd  diadem  on  my  brow 

I  claim'd  and  won  usurpingly  - 
Hath  not  the  same  fierce  heirdom  given   30 
Rome  to  the  Cjesar  —  this  to  me  ? 

The  heritage  of  a  kingly  mind, 
And  a  proud  spirit  which  hath  striven 
Triumphantly  with  human  kind. 

On  mountain  soil  I  first  drew  life: 
The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed  - 
Nightly  their  dews  upon  my  head, 

And,  I  believe,  the  winged  strife 

And  tumult  of  the  headlong  air 

Have  nestled  in  my  very  hair.  40 

So  late  from  Heaven  —  that  dew  —  it  fell 

('Mid  dreams  of  an  unholy  night) 
Upon  me  with  the  touch  of  Hell, 


*  The  mountains  of  Belur  Taglay  are  a  branch  of  the 
aus,  in  the  southern  part  of  Independent  Tartar}"- 
They  are  celebrated  for  the  singular  wildness  and  beauty 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


37 


While  the  red  flashing  of  the  light 
Prom  clouds  that  hung,  like  banners,  o'er, 

Appeared  to  my  half-closing  eye 

The  pageantry  of  monarchy, 
And  the  deep  trumpet-thunder's  roar 

Came  hurriedly  upon  me,  telling 

Of  human  battle,  where  my  voice,      50 

My  own  voice,  silly  child  !  —  was  swel- 


ling 
3!  he 


(O  !  how  my  spirit  would  rejoice, 
And  leap  within  me  at  the  cry) 
The  battle-cry  of  Victory  ! 

The  rain  came  down  upon  my  head 
Unshelter'd  —  and  the  heavy  wind 
Rendered  me  mad  and  deaf  and  blind. 
It  was  but  man,  I  thought,  who  shed 
Laurels  upon  me:  and  the  rush  — 
The  torrent  of  the  chilly  air  60 

Gurgled  within  my  ear  the  crash 

Of  empires  —  with  the  captive's  prayer — 
The  hum  of  suitors  —  and  the  tone 
Of  flattery  'round  a  sovereign's  throne. 

My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 

Usurp'd  a  tyranny  which  men 
Have  deem'd,  since  I  have  reach'd  to  power, 
My  innate  nature  —  be  it  so  : 

But,  father,  there  liv'd  one  who,  then, 
Then  —  in  my  boyhood  —  when  their  fire  70 

Burn'd  with  a  still  intenser  glow 
(For  passion  must,  with  youth,  expire) 

E'en  then  who  knew  this  iron  heart 

In  woman's  weakness  had  a  part. 

I  have  no  words  —  alas  !  —  to  tell 
The  loveliness  of  loving  well  ! 
Nor  would  I  now  attempt  to  trace 
The  more  than  beauty  of  a  face 
Whose  lineaments,  upon  my  mind, 

Are shadows  on  th'  unstable  wind:    3o 

Thus  I  remember  having  dwelt 

Some  page  of  early  lore  upon, 
With  loitering  eye,  till  I  have  felt 
The  letters  —  with  their  meaning  —  melt 

To  fantasies  —  with  none. 

O,  she  was  worthy  of  all  love  ! 

Love  —  as  in  infancy  was  mine  — 
'T  was  such  as  angel  minds  above 

Might  envy;  her  young  heart  the  shrine 
On  which  my  every  hope  and  thought      90 

Were  incense  —  then  a  goodly  gift, 

For  they  were  childish  and  upright  — 
Pure as  her  young  example  taught: 


Why  did  I  leave  it,  and,  adrift, 
Trust  to  the  tire  within,  for  light  ? 

We  grew  in  age  —  and  love together  — <• 

Roaming  the  forest,  and  the  wild  ; 

My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather  — 
And,  when  the  friendly  sunshine  smil'd, 

And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies,  ioa 

/  saw  no  Heaven  —  but  in  her  eyes. 

Young  Love's  first  lesson  is  —  the  heart : 

For  'mid  that  sunshine,  and  those  smiles, 
When,  from  our  little  cares  apart, 

And  laughing  at  her  girlish  wiles, 
I  'd  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast, 

And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears  — 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest  — 

No  need  to  quiet  any  fears 
Of  her  —  who  ask'd  no  reason  why,          t  f0 
But  turn'd  on  me  her  quiet  eye  ! 

Yet  more  than  worthy  of  the  love 
My  spirit  struggled  with,  and  strove, 
When,  on  the  mountain  peak,  alone, 
Ambition  lent  it  a  new  tone  — 
I  had  no  being  —  but  in  thee  : 

The  world,  and  all  it  did  contain 
In  the  earth  —  the  air  —  the  sea  — 

Its  joy  —  its  little  lot  of  pain 
That  was  new  pleasure the  ideal,      120 

Dim,  vanities  of  dreams  by  night  — 
And  dimmer  nothings  which  were  real  — 

(Shadows  —  and  a  more  shadowy  light !) 
Parted  upon  their  misty  wings, 
And,  so,  confusedly,  became 
Thine  image  and  —  a  name  —  a  name ' 
Two  separate  •  —  yet  most  intimate  things. 

1  was  ambitious  —  have  you  known 

The  passion,  father  ?  You  have  not : 
A  cottager,  I  mark'd  a  throne  \yc. 

Of  half  the  world  as  all  my  own, 

And  murmur'd  at  such  lowly  lot  — 
But,  just  like  any  othei  dream, 

Upon  the  vapor  of  the  dew 
My  own  had  past,  did  not  the  beam 

Of  beauty  which  did  while  it  thro' 
The    minute  —  the   hour  —  the   day  —  op- 


My  mind  with  double  loveliness.1 

1  The  last  two  paragraphs,  twenty-seven  lines  in  all, 
should  be  compared  with  the  corresponding  para, 
graphs  (numbered  vii  and  viii)  in  the  version  of  1827. 
which  contain  seventy-one  lines,  in  order  to  appreciate 
the  greater  condensation  and  strength  of  the  18'_>9  ver 
sion.  The  advance  which  Poe  made  betweon  these  two 


Fi  7348 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


We  walk'd  together  on  the  crown 

Of  a  high  mountain  which  look'd  down    140 

Afar  from  its  proud  natural  towers 

Of  rock  and  forest,  on  the  hills  — 
The  dwindled  hills  !  begirt  with  bowers 

And  shouting  with  a  thousand  rills. 

I  spoke  to  her  of  power  and  pride, 

But  mystically  —  in  such  guise 
That  she  might  deem  it  nought  beside 

The  moment's  converse  ;  in  her  eyes 
I  read,  perhaps  too  carelessly  — 

A  mingled  feeling  with  my  own  —       150 
The  flush  on  her  bright  cheek,  to  me 

Seem'd  to  become  a  queenly  throne 
Too  well  that  I  should  let  it  be 

Light  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

I  wrapp'd  myself  in  grandeur  then 
And  donn'd  a  visionar    crown  - 


Yet  it  was  not  that  Fantasy 
Had  thrown  her  mantle  over  me  — 
But  that,  among  the  rabble  —  men, 

Lion  ambition  is  chain'd  down  —      160 
And  crouches  to  a  keeper's  hand  — 
Not  so  in  deserts  where  the  grand  — 
The  wild  —  the  terrible  conspire 
With  their  own  breath  to  fan  his  fire.1 

Look  'round  thee  now  on  Samarcand  !  2  — 

Is  she  not  queen  of  Earth  ?  her  pride 
Above  all  cities  ?  in  her  hand 

Their  destinies  ?  in  all  beside 
Of  glory  which  the  world  hath  known 
Stands  she  not  nobly  and  alone  ?  170 

Falling  —  her  veriest  stepping-stone 
Shall  form  the  pedestal  of  a  throne  — 
And  who  her  sovereign  ?  Timour  3  —  he 

Whom  the  astonished  people  saw 
Striding  o'er  empires  haughtily 

A  diadem'd  outlaw  ! 

O,  human  love  !  thou  spirit  given, 
On  Earth,  of  all  we  hope  in  Heaven  T 
Which  fall'st  into  the  soul  like  rain 
Upon  the  Siroc-wither'd  plain,  180 

versions,  the  way  in  which  he  'found  himself,'  is 
strikingly  illustrated  by  the  characteristic  suggestive- 
ness,  beauty,  and  perhaps  vagueness  of  expression  in 
these  two  paragraphs  as  they  now  stand. 

1  These  ten  lines  have  taken  the  place  of  ninety- 
three  lines  (sections  xi-xiv)  in  the  1827  edition. 

1  I  believe  it  was  after  the  battle  of  Angora  that 
Tamerlane  made  Samarcand  his  residence.  It  became 
for  a  time  the  seat  of  learning  and  the  arts.  (PoK,  1827.) 

*  He  was  called  Timur  Bek  as  well  as  Tamerlanb. 
(Foe,  1827.) 


And,  failing  in  thy  power  to  bless, 
But  leav'st  the  heart  a  wilderness ! 
Idea  !  which  bindest  life  around 
With  music  of  so  strange  a  sound 
And  beauty  of  so  wild  a  birth  — 
Farewell  !  for  1  have  won  the  Earth. 

When  Hope,  the  eagle  that  tower'd,  could 

see 

No  cliff  beyond  him  in  the  sky, 
His  pinions  were  bent  droopingly  — 
And  homeward  turn'd  his  soften'd  eye.4    190 
'T  was  sunset:  when  the  sun  will  part 
There  comes  a  sullenness  of  heart 
To  him  who  still  would  look  upon 
The  glory  of  the  summer  sun. 
That  soul  will  hate  the  ev'ning  mist 
So  often  lovely,  and  will  list 
To    the    sound   of    the   coming  darkness 

(known 

To  those  whose  spirits  harken)  as  one 
Who,  in  a  dream  of  night,  would  fly 
But  cannot  from  a  danger  nigh.  aoo 

What  tho'  the  moon  —  the  white  moon 
Shed  all  the  splendor  of  her  noon, 
Her  smile  is  chilly  —  and  her  beam, 
In  that  time  of  dreariness,  will  seem 
(So  like  you  gather  in  your  breath) 
A  portrait  taken  after  death. 

And  boyhood  is  a  summer  sun 

Whose  waning  is  the  dreariest  one  — 

For  all  we  live  to  know  is  known 

And  all  we  seek  to  keep  hath  flown  —     210 

Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall 

With  the  noon-day  beauty  —  which  is  all. 

I  reach 'd  my  home  —  my  home  no  more  — 
For  all  had  flown  who  made  it  so. 

I  pass'd  from  out  its  mossy  door, 

And,  tho'  my  tread  was  soft  and  low, 

A  voice  came  from  the  threshold  stone 

Of  one  whom  I  had  earlier  known  — 
O,  I  defy  thee,  Hell,  to  show 
On  beds  of  fire  that  burn  below,  220 

An  humbler  heart  —  a  deeper  woe. 

4  At  this  point  the  story  Is  given  more  clearly  in  tht 
version  of  1827  :  — 

My  eyes  were  still  on  pomp  and  power. 
My  vilder'd  heart  was  far  away 
In  tl.e  valleys  of  the  wild  Taglay, 
In  mine  own  Ada's  matted  bower. 
I  dwelt  not  long  in  Snmarcnnd 
Ere,  in  a  peasant's  lowlv  guise, 
I  sought  my  long-abandon'd  land; 
By  sunset  did  its  mountains  rise 
In  dusky  grandeur  to  my  eye». 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


39 


Father,  I  firmly  do  believe  — l 

I  know  —  for  Death  who  comes  for  me 

From  regions  of  the  blest  afar, 
Where  there  is  nothing  to  deceive, 

Hath  left  his  iron  gate  ajar, 
And  rays  of  truth  you  cannot  see 

Are  flashing  thro'  Eternity 

I  do  believe  that  Eblis  hath 
A  snare  in  every  human  path  —  230 

Else  how,  when  in  the  holy  grove 
I  wandered  of  the  idol,  Love, 
Who  daily  scents  his  snowy  wings 
With  incense  of  burnt  offerings 
From  the  most  unpolluted  things, 
Whose  pleasant  bowers  are  yet  so  riven 
Above  with  trellic'd  rays  from  Heaven 
No  mote  may  shun  —  no  tiniest  fly  — 
The  light'ning  of  his  eagle  eye  — 
How  was  it  that  Ambition  crept,  240 

Unseen,  amid  the  revels  there, 
Till  growing  bold,  lie  laughed  and  leapt 

In  the  tangles  of  Love's  very  hair  ? 
1821 1-1829?-  1827,  1829. 


TO 

I  SAW  thee  on  thy  bridal  day  — 

When  a  burning  blush  came  o'er  thee, 

Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 
The  world  all  love  before  thee  : 

And  in  thine  eye  a  kindling  light 

(Whatever  it  might  be) 
Was  all  on  Earth  my  aching  sight 

Of  Loveliness  could  see. 

That  blush,  perhaps,  was  maiden  shame  — 
As  such  it  well  may  pass  — 

1  This  last  paragraph  of  the  poem  was  added  in  the 
edition  of  1829. 

s  In  his  preface  to  the  original  edition  of  Tamerlane, 
Poe  says  :  '  The  greater  part  of  the  poems  which  com- 
pose this  little  volume  were  written  in  the  year  1821- 
1822,  when  the  author  had  not  completed  his  fourteenth 
year.'  This  statement  is  not  to  be  trusted  implicitly. 
But  even  if  we  assign  the  composition  of  these  poems 
to  the  latest  possible  date,  1826-1827,  the  early  develop- 
ment of  their  author  seems  hardly  the  less  remarkable ; 
lor  he  would  then  be  only  seventeen  or  eighteen  years 
old.  Keats  was  almost  twenty-two  at  the  time  when 
his  first  volume  was  published.  '  Both  in  promise  and 
in  actual  performance,'  says  Mr.  Shepherd  in  his  pre- 
face to  the  1884  reprint  of  Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems 
(quoted  by  Mr.  Harrison),  '  it  may  claim  to  rank  as  the 
most  remarkable  production  that  any  English-speaking 
or  English-writing  poet  of  this  century  has  published 
in  his  teens.'  Poe  was  only  eighteen  years  old  when 
the  volume  was  published,  and  it  is  interesting  to  note 
that  the  printer  and  publisher  of  the  book,  Calvin 
Thomas  of  Boston,  was  then  only  nineteen  years  old. 


Though  its  glow  hath  raised  a  fiercer  flame 
In  the  breast  of  him,  alas  ! 

Who  saw  thee  on  that  bridal  day, 

When  that  deep  blush  would  come  o'er 
thee, 

Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 
The  world  all  love  before  thee. 

1826.  1827. 

SONG  FROM   AL  AARAAF8 

'NEATH  blue-bell  or  streamer  — • 

Or  tufted  wild  spray 
That  keeps,  from  the  dreamer, 

The  moonbeam  away  — 
Bright  beings  !  that  ponder, 

With  half  closing  eyes, 
On  the  stars  which  your  wonder 

Hath  drawn  from  the  skies, 
'Till  they  glance  thro'  the  shade,  and 

Come  down  to  your  brow'  10 

Like eyes  of  the  maiden 

Who  calls  on  you  now  — 
Arise  !  from  your  dreaming 

In  violet  bowers, 
To  duty  beseeming 

These  star-litten  hours  — 
And  shake  from  your  tresses 

Encumber'd  with  dew 
The  breath  of  those  kisses 

That  cumber  them  too  —  a« 

»  This  song  was  introduced  in  the  second  part  of  '  Al 
Aaraaf '  as  being  sung  to  summon  the  spirit  of  music, 
or  better  the  spirit  of  universal  harmony.  One  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  Poe's  tales,  called  'Ligeia,'  is  an 
even  finer  embodiment  of  this  conception. 

Mr.  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  gives  in  his  Short 
Studies  of  American  Authors  some  vivid  reminiscences 
of  the  evening  when  Poe  read  '  Al  Aaraaf '  to  an  audi- 
ence in  Boston.  The  story  is  told  in  more  condensed 
form  in  Higginson  and  Boynton's  Reader's  History  of 
American  Literature,  page  214  :  'The  verses  had  long 
since  been  printed  in  his  youthful  volume  .  .  .  and 
they  produced  no  very  distinct  impression  on  the  audi- 
ence until  Poe  began  to  read  the  maiden's  song  in  the 
second  part.  Already  his  tones  had  been  softening  to 
a  finer  melody  than  at  first,  and  when  he  came  to  the 
verses,  — 

Ligeia !  Ligeia  !  » 

My  beautiful  one ! 

his  voice  seemed  attenuated  to  the  faintest  golden 
thread  ;  the  audience  became  hushed,  and,  as  it  were, 
breathless ;  there  seemed  no  life  in  the  hall  but  his ;  and 
every  syllable  was  accentuated  with  such  delicacy,  and 
sustained  with  such  sweetness,  as  I  never  heard  equaled 
by  other  lips.  When  the  lyric  ended,  it  was  like  the 
ceasing  of  the  gypsy's  chant  in  Browning's  "  Flight  of 
the  Duchess  ;  "  and  I  remember  nothing  more,  except 
that  in  walking  back  to  Cambridge  my  comrades  and  I 
felt  that  we  had  been  under  the  spell  of  some  wizard. 
Indeed,  I  feel  much  the  same  in  the  retrospect,  to  this 
day.' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


(O  !  how,  without  you,  Love ! 

Could  angels  be  blest  ?) 
Those  kisses  of  true  love 

That  lull'd  ye  to  rest ! 
Up  !  —  shake  from  your  wing 

Each  hindering  thing: 
The  dew  of  the  night  — 

It  would  weigh  down  your  flight; 
And  true  love  caresses  — 

O  !  leave  them  apart ! 
They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 

But  lead  on  the  heart. 

Ligeia!  Ligeia! 

My  beautiful  one  ! 
Whose  harshest  idea 

Will  to  melody  run, 
O!  is  it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss  ? 
Or,  capriciously  still, 

Like  the  lone  Albatross, 
Incumbent  on  night 

(As  she  on  the  air) 
To  keep  watch  with  delight 

On  the  harmony  there  ? 

Li^eia!  wherever 
•    Thy  image  may  be, 
No  magic  shall  sever 

Thy  music  from  thee. 
Thou  hast  bound  many  eyes 

In  a  dreamy  sleep  — 
But  the  strains  still  arise 

Which  thy  vigilance  keep  — 
The  sound  of  the  rain 

Which  leaps  down  to  the  flower, 
And  dances  again 

In  the  rhythm  of  the  shower  — 
The  murmur  that  springs 

From  the  growing  of  grass 
Are  the  music  of  things  — 

But  are  modell'd,  alas  !  — 
Away,  then  my  dearest, 

O  !  hie  thee  away 
To  springs  that  lie  clearest 

Beneath  the  moon-ray  — 
To  lone  lake  that  smiles,  • 

In  its  dream  of  deep  rest, 
At  the  many  star-isles 

That  enjewel  its  breast  — 
Where  wild  flowers,  creeping, 

Have  mingled  their  shade, 
On  its  margin  is  sleeping 

Full  many  a  maid  — 
Some  have  left  the  cool  glade,  and 


Have  slept  with  the  bee  — 
Arouse  them  my  maiden, 

On  moorland  and  lea  — 
Go  !  breathe  on  their  slumber, 

All  softly  in  ear, 
The  musical  number 

They  slumber 'd  to  hear  — 
For  what  can  awaken 

An  angel  so  soon 
Whose  sleep  hath  been  taken 

Beneath  the  cold  moon, 
As  the  spell  which  no  slumber 

Of  witchery  may  test, 
The  rhythmical  number 

Which  lull'd  him  to  rest  ? 
1829? 

ROMANCE 


1829. 


ROMANCE,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing, 
With  drowsy  head  and  folded  wing, 
Among  the  green  leaves  as  they  shake 
Far  down  within  some  shadowy  lake, 
To  me  a  painted  paroquet 
Hath  been  —  a  most  familiar  bird  — 
Taught  me  my  alphabet  to  say  — 
To  lisp  my  very  earliest  word 
While  in  the  wild  wood  I  did  lie, 
A  child  —  with  a  most  knowing  eye. 

Of  late,  eternal  Condor  years 
So  shake  the  very  Heaven  on  high 
With  tumult  as  they  thunder  by, 
I  have  no  time  for  idle  cares 
Through  gazing  on  the  unquiet  sky. 
And  when  an  hour  with  calmer  wings 
Its  down  upon  my  spirit  flings  — 
That  little  time  with  l^rre  and  rhyme 
To  while  away  —  forbidden  things  1 
My  heart  would  feel  to  be  a  crime 
Unless  it  trembled  with  the  strings. 

182!  i 


SONNET  — TO   SCIENCE 

SCIENCE  !  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou 

art! 
Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering 

eyes. 
Why  preyest   thou  thus   upon   the   poet's 

heart, 

Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities  ? 
How  should  he  love  thee  ?  or  how  deem 

thee  wise, 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 


Who  wouldst  not  leave  him  in  his  wandering 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jewelled  skies, 
Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  whig  ? 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car  ? 
And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star  ? 
Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind 
tree? 

1829. 

TO  — 

THE  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 

The  wantonest  singing  birds, 
Are  lips  —  and  all  thy  melody 

Of  lip-begotten  words  — 

Thine  eyes,  in  Heaven  of  heart  enshrined 

Then  desolately  fall, 
O  God  !  on  my  funereal  mind 

Like  starlight  on  a  pall  — 

Thy  heart  —  thy  heart  !  —  I  wake  and  sigh, 

And  sleep  to  dream  till  day 
Of  the  truth  that  gold  can  never  buy  — 

Of  the  baubles  that  it  may. 

1829. 

TO  — 

I  HEED  not  that  my  earthly  lot 

Hath  little  of  Earth  in  it, 
That  years  of  love  have  been  forgot 

in  the  hatred  of  a  minute  : 
I  mourn  not  that  the  desolate 

Are  happier,  sweet,  than  I, 
jiut  that  you  sorrow  for  niy  fate 

Who  am  a  passer-by. 

1829. 

A   DREAM   WITHIN    A    DREAM 

TAKE  this  kiss  upon  the  brow  ! 

And,  in  parting  from  you  now, 

Thus  much  let  me  avow  — 

You  are  not  wrong,  who  deem 

That  my  days  have  been  a  dream ; 

Yet  if  hope  has  flown  away 

In  a  night,  or  in  a  dav, 

In  a  vision,  or  in  none, 

Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone  f 

All  that  we  see  or  seem 

Is  but  a  dream  within  a  dream. 


I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  a  surf-tormented  shore, 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Grains  of  the  golden  sand  — 
How  few!  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  fingers  to  the  deep, 
While  I  weep  —  while  I  weep  ! 
O  God  !  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp  ? 
O  God  !  can  I  not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave  ? 
Is  all  that  we  see  or  seem 
But  a  dream  within  a  dream  ? 

1829, 1849.1 

TO    HELEN 

HELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nice'an  barks  of  yore, 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  way-worn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo!  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand! 
Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy-Land! 

1831. 

ISRAFEL2 

IN  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

'  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute ; ' 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 

1  This  poem  suffered  more  changes  than  any  other  of 
Poe's.   The  germ  of  it  is  perhaps  to  be  found  in  '  Imi- 
tation,'  in  the  1827  volume  ;  but  no  phrase  of  that 

poem  is  identical  with  any  phrase  of  this.    '  To 

,'  in  the  volume  of  1829,  contains  one  line  taken 

from  '  Imitation.'   Part  of  '  To ^  was  used  a? 

a  last  paragraph  of  '  Tamerlane  '  in  the  edition  of  1831; 
and  the  whole  was  later  revised  and  considerably  short- 
ened, and  waa  published  by  Griswold  in  1849  with  its 
present  title. 

2  And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a 
lute,  and  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  crea- 
tures. —  KOBAN.   (Poe's  note,  1845.) 

Poe  alone  is  responsible  for  the  words  '  Whose  heart- 
strings are  a  lute.1  The  rest  of  the  phrase  had  been 
quoted  by  Thomas  Moore,  in  his  '  Lalla  Rookh,'  from 
Sale's  '  Preliminary  Discourse '  to  the  Koran.  Poe,  as 
Professor  Woodberry  has  pointed  out,  took  the  phrase 
from  Moore. 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

Jn  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon  10 

Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven, ) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings  —  20 

The  trembling  living  wire 

Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty  — 

Where  Love  's  a  grown-up  God  — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest  30 

An  unimpassioned  song  ; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest! 
Merrily  live,  and  long! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit  — 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  — 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine ;  but  this  40 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody,  4q 

While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

1831. 


THE   CITY   IN   THE   SEA 

Lo!  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst 

and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not!) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky  J0 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently  — 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free  — 
Up  domes  —  up  spires  —  up  kingly  halls  — 
Up  fanes  —  up  Babylon-like  walls  — 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers  —      20 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 
So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 
That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 
While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 
Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves  30 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye  — 

Not  the  gayly-jewelled  dead 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas! 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass  — • 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea  — 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been     40 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene. 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air! 

The  wave  —  there  is  a  movement  there! 

As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 

In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide  — 

As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 

A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven. 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow  — 

The  hours  are  breathing  f aint  and  low  — 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 


43 


And  when,  arnid  no  earthly  moans,  50 

Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 

1831, 1845. 

THE   SLEEPERi 

AT  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 

I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 

An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 

Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 

And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 

Upon  the  quiet  mountain  top, 

Steals  drowsily  and  musically 

Into  the  universal  valley. 

The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave; 

The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave;  10 

Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 

The  ruin  moulders  into  rest; 

Looking  like  Lethe,  see  !  the  lake 

A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 

And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 

All  Beauty  sleeps  !  —  and  lo  !  where  lies 

Irene,  with  her  Destinies! 

Oh,  lady  bright  !  can  it  be  right  — 
This  window  open  to  the  night  ? 
The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree-top,  20 

Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop  — 
The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 
Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 
And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 
So  fitfully  —  so  fearfully  — 
Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 
'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 
That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 
Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall  ! 
Oh,  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear  ?  30 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here  ? 
Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 
A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees  ! 
Strange  is  thy  pallor  !  strange  thy  dress  ! 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness  ! 

The  lady  sleeps  !    Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep  ! 

1  Poe  says  in  a  letter,  probably  of  1845  :  '  Tour  ap- 
preciation of  '•  The  Sleeper  "  delights  me.  In  the  higher 
qualities  of  poetry  it  is  better  than  "  The  P,aven  ;  "  but 
there  is  not  one  man  in  a  million  who  could  be  brought 
to  agree  with  me  in  this  opinion.  "The  Raven"  of 
course,  is  far  the  better  as  a  work  of  art ;  but  in  the 
true  basis  of  all  art,  "  The  Sleeper  "  is  ths  superior.  I 
wrote  the  latter  when  quite  a  boy  ' 


Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep  ! 

This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 

This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy,  4i 

I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 

Forever  with  unopened  eye, 

While  the  pale  sheeted  ghosts  go  by  ! 

My  love,  she  sleeps  !  Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep  ! 
Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep  ! 
Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 
For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold  — 
Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black   y 
And  winged  panels  fluttering  back, 
Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls, 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals  — 
Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  nortal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  m.-ny  an  idle  stone  — 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin  ! 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within.         6a 

1831. 

LENORE2 

AH,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl !   the  spirit 
flown  forever! 

2  The  first  and  third  stanzas  are  supposed  to  be  spo- 
ken by  the  '  wretches,'  relatives  or  false  friends  ot 
Leuore  ;  the  second  and  fourth  stanzas  by  Guy  D« 
Vere,  her  lover. 

In  this  one  case,  perhaps,  Poe's  latest  version  is  not 
so  good  as  an  earlier  one.   The  form  of  Lenore  published 
in  1843  is  given  below  for  comparison. 
Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl  I 

The  spirit  flown  forever  ! 
Let  the  bell  toll  !  —  A  saintly  soul 

Glides  down  the  Stygian  river ! 

And  let  the  burial  rite  be  read  — 

The  funeral  song  be  sung— 

A  dirge  for  the  most  lovely  dead 

That  ever  died  so  young  1 

And,  Guy  De  Vere, 

Hast  thou  no  tear  ? 

Weep  now  or  nevermore  I 
See,  on  yon  drear 
And  rigid  bier. 

Low  lies  thy  love  Lenore  ! 

'  Yon  heir,  whose  cheeks  of  pallid  hue 

With  tears  are  streaming  wet. 
Sees  only,  through 

Their  crocodile  dew,  , 

A  vacant  coronet  — 
False  friends  !  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth 

And  hated  her  for  her  pride, 
And,  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health. 
Ye  blessed  her  -  that  she  died. 


How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read  ? 

The  requiem  how  be  sung 
For  her  most  wrong'd  of  all  the  dead 


s  requiem  how  be  i 

er  most  wrong'd  o 

That  ever  died  so  young  ? ' 


Go  up  to  God  so  mournfully  that  the  may  feel  1 
The  sweet  Lenore 
Hath  '  gone  before ' 


44 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Let  the  bell  toll!  — a  saintly  soul  floats  on 

the  Stygian  river; 
And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear  ?  — 

weep  now  or  never  more  ! 
See!  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies 

thy  love,  Lenore  ! 
Come  !   let  the  burial   rite  be  read  —  the 

funeral  song  be  sung  !  — 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that 

ever  died  so  young  — 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she 

died  so  young. 

'Wretches!   ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth 

and  hated  her  for  her  pride, 
'And  when  she  fell  in   feeble  health,  ye 

blessed  her  —  that  she  died  ! 
'  How  shall  the   ritual,  then,  be  read  ?  — 

the  requiem  how  be  sung 
'  By   you  —  by   yours,  the  evil   eye,  —  by 

yours,  the  slanderous  tongue 


With  voung  hope  at  her  Bide, 

And  thou  art  wild 

For  the  dear  child 
That  should  have  been  thy  bride  — 

For  her.  the  fair 

And  debonair. 
That  now  so  lowlv  lies  — 

The  life  still  there 

Upon  her  hair. 
The  death  upon  her  eyes. 


My  heart  is  light  - 

No  dirge  will  I  upraise, 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight 
With  a  Pzan  of  old  days  1 
Let  no  bell  toll  ! 
Lest  her  sweet  soul. 

Amid  its  hallow'd  mirth. 
Should  catch  the  note 
A«  it  doth  float 

m  the  damned  earth  — 
i  friends  above,  from  fiends  below, 

Th'  indiima 
Frc 

To  a  cold  throne 
Beside  the  King  of  Heaven  I '. 

It  seems  probable  that  Poe  was  influenced  by  the  suc- 
cess of  '  The  Raven  '  to  rearrange  •  Lenore '  in  some- 
what similar  lines  of  even  length. 

In  the  text  above  I  have  given  the  last  stanza  of  the 
poem  as  it  stands  in  the  Lorimer  Graham  copy  —  a 
copy  of  the  edition  of  1845,  corrected  by  Poe's  own 
hand.  In  the  edition  of  1845,  uncorrected,  the  stanz-, 
reads  as  follows:  — 


'From  erief  and_  groan,  to  a  golden  throne,  beside 

Let  no  belf  tolUhen !  -  lest  her  soul,  amid  its  hallowed  mirth. 
Should  catch  the  note  as  it  doth  float  up  from  the  damned 

And  1 1  ^  to-night  my  heart  i»  light  I  No  dirge  will  I  up- 
But  wTftthe  anjel  on  her  flight  with  a  Paean  of  old  days  ! 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  in  this  case,  and  perhaps 
in  this  case  only,  Poe,  after  changing  considerably  a 
passage  of  his  work,  later  returned  to  a  previous  ver- 
sion. The  arrangement  of  ideas  in  his  corrected  copy  of 
this  fourth  stanza  is  much  closer  to  the  1843  version 
than  to  that  of  1845. 


'  That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died, 
and  died  so  young  ?  ' 

Peccavimus  •  but  rave  not  thus  !  and  let  a 

Sabbath  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may 

feel  no  wrong! 
The  sweet  Lenore  hath  '  gone  before,'  with 

Hope,  that  flew  beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that 

should  have  been  thy  bride  — 
For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so 

lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  withir 

her  eyes  — 
The   life  still  there,  upon  her  hair  — the 

death  upon  her  eyes. 

'  Avaunt !   to-night  my  heart  is  light.    No 

dirge  will  I  upraise. 
'But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a 

paean  of  old  days  ! 
'Let  no  bell  toll!—  lest  her  sweet  soul, 

amid  its  hallowed  mirth, 
'  Should  catch  the  note,  as  it  doth  float  up 

from  the  damned  Earth. 
'To  friends  above,  from  fiends  below,  the 

indignant  ghost  is  riven  — 
'From    Hell   unto  a   high   estate    far    up 

within  the  Heaven  — 
'  From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne, 

beside  the  King  of  Heaven.' 

1831,  1843,  1845. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST 

ONCE  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 

Where  the  people  did  not  dwell; 

They  had  gone  unto  the  wars, 

Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 

Nightly,  from  their  azure  towers, 

To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 

In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 

The  red  sun-light  lazily  lay. 

Now  each  visiter  shall  confess 

The  sad  valley's  restlessness. 

Nothing  there  is  motionless  — 

Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 

Over  the  magic  solitude. 

Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 

That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 

Around  the  misty  Hebrides  ! 

Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 

That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  Heaven 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


45 


Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even, 

Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 

In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye  — 

Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 

And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave  ! 

They  wave  :  —  from  out  their  fragrant  tops 

Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 

They  weep  :  —  from  off  their  delicate  stems 

Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 

1831,  1845. 

THE  COLISEUM* 

TYPE  of  the  antique  Rome  !  Rich  reliquary 
Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power  ! 
At   length  —  at   length  —  after   so   many 

days 

Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst, 
(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee 

lie,) 

I  kneel,  an  altered  and  an  humble  man, 
Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 
My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and 

glory !  9 

Vastness  !  and  Age!  and  Memories  of  Eld! 
Silence  !  and  Desolation  !  and  dim  Night ! 
I  feel  ye  now  —  I  feel  ye  in  your  strength  — 
O  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judsean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane  ! 
O   charms   more    potent    than    the     rapt 

Chaldee 
Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars ! 

Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls  ! 
Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 
A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 
Here,  where   the    dames    of    Rome    their 

gilded  hair  20 

Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and 

thistle  ! 
Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  monarch 

lolled, 

Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 
Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 
The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones  ! 

But    stay  !    these    walls  —  these    ivy-clad 

arcades  — 
These  mouldering  plinths  —  these  sad  and 

blackened  shafts  — 

»  Compare  the  descriptions  of  the  Coliseum  by 
Byron  (Manfred,  act.  iii,  scene  iv,  Childe  Harold, 
canto  iv,  stanzas  114  and  following),  by  Chateaubriand 
(Itiniraire  de  Paris  a  Jerusalem),  etc. 


These  vague  entablatures  —  this  crumbling 

frieze  — 
These   shattered   cornices  —  this  wreck  — 

this  ruin  — 
These  stones  —  alas  !  these  gray  stones  — 

are  they  all  —  30 

All  of  the  famed,  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  Hours  to  Fate  and  me  ? 

'  Not  all  '  —  the  Echoes  answer  me  —  '  not 

all! 

Prophetic  sounds  and  loud,  arise  forever 
From   us,  and   from    all   Ruin,   unto   the 

wise, 

As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  Sun. 
We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men  —  we 

rule 

With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 
We  are  not  impotent  —  we  pallid  stones. 
Not  all  our  power  is  gone  —  not  all  our 

fame  —  40 

Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown  — 
Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us  — 
Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie  — 
Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 
And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 
Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory.' 


HYMN 

AT  morn  —  at  noon  —  at  twilight  dim  — 
Maria  !  thou  hast  heard  my  hymn  ! 
In  joy  and  woe  —  in  good  and  ill  — 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still  ! 
When  the  Hours  flew  brightly  by, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be, 
Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  thee" 
Now,  when  storms  of  Fate  o'ercast 
Darkly  my  Present  and  my  Past, 
Let  my  Future  radiant  shine 
With  sweet  hopes  of  thee  and  thine  ! 

1835. 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE2 

THOU  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine  — 

A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 
A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 

2  Originally  in  the  tale,  '  The  Visionary  '  (now  called 
'  The  Assignation ').  There,  and  in  most  later  versions, 
the  first  line  reads,  — 

Thou  wast  that  all  to  me,  love  .  .  • 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  Hope  !  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
'  On  !  on  1 '  —  but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf  !)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast  ! 

For,  alas!  alas!  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er  ! 

'  No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more  — ' 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar  ! 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams  — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

ISVl,  IS35. 

TO   F i 

BELOVED  !  amid  the  earnest  woes 

That  crowd  around  my  earthly  path  — 

(Drear  path,  alas  !  where  grows 

Not  even  one  lonely  rose)  — 
My  soul  at  least  a  solace  hath 

In  dreams  of  thee,  and  therein  knows 

An  Eden  of  bland  repose. 

And  thus  thy  memory  is  to  me 
Like  some  enchanted  far-off  isle 

In  some  tumultuous  sea  — 

Some  ocean  throbbing  far  and  free 
With  storms  —  but  where  meanwhile 

Serenest  skies  continually 

Just  o'er  that  one  bright  island  smile. 

1835. 


TO    F- 


-s  s.  o- 


-D2 


THOU  wouldst  be  loved?  — then   let  thy 

heart 
From  its  present  pathway  part  not  ! 

i  The  title  was  in  1835  '  To  Mary,'  in  1842  '  To  One 
Departed,'  and  in  1845  '  To  F .' 

>  Addressed  in  1845,  with  some  changes  from  the 
version  of  1835  to  Frances  Sargent  Osgood.  See  the 
biographies. 


Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 
Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 

So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 
Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 

Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 
And  love  —  a  simple  duty. 

1835,  1845. 

SONNET  TO   ZANTE 

FAIR    isle,  that  from  the   fairest  of  all 

flowers, 
Thy  gentlest  of   all  gentle  names  dost 

take  !  3 

How  many  memories  of  what  radiant  hours 

At  sight  of  thee  and  thine  at  once  awake  ! 

How  many  scenes  of  what  departed  bliss  ! 

How  many  thoughts  of  what  entombed 

hopes  ! 

How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 
No  more  —  no  more  upon  thy  verdant 

slopes  ! 

No  more  !  alas,  that  magical  sad  sound 
Transforming   all  !     Thy    charms   shall 

please  no  more  — 

Thy  memory  no  more  !     Accursed  ground 
Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enamelled 

shore, 

O  hyacinthine  isle  !     O  purple  Zante  ! 
'  Isola  d'oro  !     Fior  di  Levante  !  ' 

1837. 


THE   HAUNTED  PALACE4 

IN  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Kadiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In,  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion  — 

It  stood  there  ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair  ! 

'  Je  souscris  a  ses  noms  d'Isola  d'oro,'  de  Fior  di 
Levante.  Ce  noin  de  fleur  me  rappelle  qu«  1'hyacinthe 
6tait  originaire  de  1'tle  de  Zante,  et  que  cette  he  recut 
son  nom  de  la  plante  qu'elle  avail  ported.  (CHA- 
TEAUBRIAND, Itineraire  de  Paris  A  Jerusalem.) 

*  This  poem  is  a  part  of  Poe's  tale  of  the  '  Fall  of 
the  House  of  Usher,'  which  should  be  read  entire. 
Lowell  calls  it  'one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his 
poems,'  and  goes  on  :  'It  loses  greatly  by  being  taken 
out  of  its  rich  and  appropriate  setting  .  .  .  We  know 
no  modern  poet  who  might  not  have  been  justly  proud 
of  it.  ...  Was  ever  the  wreck  and  desolation  of  a  noble 
mind  so  musically  sung  ?  '  'By  the  "  Haunted  Pal- 
ace" I  mean  to  imply  a  mind  haunted  by  phantoms  —  a 
disordered  brain,'  says  Poe  himself,  in  a  letter  in 
which  he  also  accuses  Longfellow  of  plagiarizing  from 
this  poem  in  the  '  Beleaguered  City.' 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 


Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow,  10 

(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago,) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows,  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law,  20 

Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

(Porphyrogene  !) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through    which     came    flowing,    flowing, 
flowing 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing,  30 

In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn  !  —  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate  !) 
A.nd  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
[s  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed.  40 

And  travellers,  now,  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody, 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 

1839. 

SONNET  — SILENCE 

THERE  are  some  qualities  —  some  incorpo- 
rate things, 

That  have  a  double  life,  which  thus  is  made 
A  type  of  that  twin  entity  which  springs 
From  matter  and  light,  evinced  in  solid  and 
shade. 


There    is    a    two-fold    Silence  —  sea    and 

shore  — 

Body  and  soul.  One  dwells  in  lonely  places, 
Newly  with  grass  o'ergrown  ;  some  solemn 

graces, 

Some  human  memories  and  tearful  lore, 
Render  him  terrorless:    his  name's    'No 

More.' 
He    is   the  corporate  Silence  :   dread  him 

not! 

No  power  hath  he  of  evil  in  himself; 
But  should   some    urgent   fate    (untimely 

lot!) 
Bring  thee  to  meet  his  shadow  (nameless 

elf, 
That  haunteth  the  lone  regions  where  hath 

trod 

No  foot  of  man,)  commend  thyself  to  God  ! 

1840. 

THE    CONQUEROR  WORM 

Lo  !  't  is  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years  ! 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low,  10 

And  hither  and  thither  fly  — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe  ! 

That  motley  drama  —  oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore, 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not,  2* 

Through  a  circle  that  ever  returnetb  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude  ! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude  ! 

It  writhes!  —  it  writhes! — with  mortal 
pangs 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


The  mimes  become  its  food,  30 

And  seraphs  sob  at  vermin  fangs 
In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out  —  out  are  the  lights  —  out  all ! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form, 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
While  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  '  Man,'     40 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 

1843. 

DREAM-LAND 

BY  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reached  these  lands  but  newly 
From  an  ultimate  dim  Thule  — 
From  a  wild  weird  clime  that  lieth,  sub- 
lime, 
Out  of  SPACE  —  out  of  TIME. 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms,  and  caves  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover    n 
For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over; 
Mountains  toppling  evermore 
Into  seas  without  a  sh*ore; 
Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging,  unto  skies  of  fire; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters  —  lone  and  dead,  — 
Their  still  waters  —  still  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily.         20 

By  the  lakes  that  thus  outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead,  — 
Their  sad  waters,  sad  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily,— 
By  the  mountains  —  near  the  river 
Murmuring  lowly,  murmuring  ever,  — 
By  the  gray  woods,  —  by  the  swamp 
Where  the  toad  and  the  newt  encamp,  — 
By  the  dismal  tarns  and  pools 

Where  dwell  the  Ghouls,  —  30 

By  each  spot  the  most  unholy  — 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy,  — 
There  the  traveller  meets,  aghast, 
Sheeted  Memories  of  the  Past  — 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by  — 


White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given, 
In  agony,  to  the  Earth  —  and  Heaven. 

For  the  heart  whose  woes  are  legion 

'T  is  a  peaceful,  soothing  region  —        4o 

For  the  spirit  that  walks  in  shadow 

'T  is  —  oh  't  is  an  Eldorado  ! 

But  the  traveller,  travelling  through  it, 

May  not  —  dare  not  openly  view  it; 

Never  its  mysteries  are  exposed 

To  the  weak  human  eye  unclosed; 

So  wills  its  King,  who  hath  forbid 

The  uplifting  of  the  fringed  lid; 

And  thus  the  sad  Soul  that  here  passes 

Beholds  it  but  through  darkened  glasses. 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely,  51 

Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  wandered  home  but  newly 
From  this  ultimate  dim  Thule. 


THE    RAVEN i 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pon- 
dered, weak  and  weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of 
forgotten  lore  — 

1  In  connection  with  the  '  Raven  '  Poe's  '  Philoso- 
phy of  Composition '  must  be  read.  See  also :  In- 
gram (John  H.),  The  Raven,  London,  1885.  Benton 
(Joel),  In  the  Poe  Circle.  Kent  (Charles  W.),  '  Poe 
and  Chivers '  (in  the  Virginia  Edition  of  Poe's  Works, 
vol.  vii,  pp.  266-288).  Woodberry  (G.  E.),  '  The  Poe- 
Chivers  Papers'  (in  the  Century,  January  and  Febru- 
ary, 1903).  Newcomer  (A.  G.),  'Tlie  Poe-Chivers  Tra- 
dition re-examined '  (in  the  Sewanee  Reciew,  January, 
1004.)  Stedman  (E.  C.),  The  Raven,  illustrated  by 
Dore',  with  comment  by  E.  C.  Stedman. 

Whether  or  not  Poe  in  the  '  Raven '  owed  anything 
to  Chivers,  he  unquestionably,  as  Mr.  Stedman  has 
pointed  out,  owed  lees  to  Chivers  than  to  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing. With  the  beginning  of  Poe's  third  stanza, 

euch  purple 

compare  Mrs.  Browning's  fourth  stanza  in  the  '  Conclu- 
sion '  of  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship, 

'  With  a  murmurous  stir  uncertain,  in  the  air  the  purple 

Swelleth  in  and  swelleth  out  around  her  motionless  pale 

brows. 

While  the  eliding  of  the  river  sends  n  rippling  noise  for  ever 
Through  the  open  casement  whitened  by  the  moonlight's 

slant  repose.' 

Here,  if  we  use  the  method  adopted  by  Poe  in  his 
arraignment  of  Longfellow  and  his  attack  on  Long- 
fellow's defenders,  where  he  insists  that  rhythm,  metre, 
and  stanza  must  form  an  essential  part  of  any  compari- 
son, and  that  the  probability  of  imitation  is  in  direct 
ratio  to  the  brevity  of  the  passages  compared  as  well  as 
to  the  number  of  coincidences,  it  would  be  easy  to  show 
that  Poe  has  followed,  or  as  he  would  say  plagiarized 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


49 


While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly 

there  came  a  tapping. 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at 

my  chamber  door. 

from,  Mrs.  Browning.  The  rhythm  is  the  same,  trochaic ; 
the  metre  is  the  same,  octameter ;  the  first  four  lilies 
of  the  stanza  which  Poe  uses  throughout  the  '  Raven ' 
are  exactly  identical  with  Mrs.  Browning's  stanza,  the 
first  and  third  lines  having  internal  femiuiue  rhyme  at 
the  fourth  foot,  and  the  second  and  fourth  having  sin- 
gle masculine  rhymes.  The  only  difference  is  that  Poe 
has  added  another  internal  rhyme  in  the  fourth  line. 
He  has  then  added  a  fifth  line  (always  in  part  a  repe- 
tition of  the  fourth  and  ending  with  the  same  word  or 
words),  and  the  refrain.  Again  to  adopt  Poe's  method 
of  comparison,  one  might  note  that  in  the  first  line  of 
Poe's  third  stanza  and  of  Mrs.  Browning's  fourth,  the 
same  word,  '  curtain '  occupies  the  same,  and  the  most 
prominent,  place,  that  it  is  matched  in  each  case  with 
tha  same  rhyme-word,  '  uncertain,'  that  the  curtaiu  is 
in  each  case  a  purple  curtain,  and  in  each  case  a 
vaguely  waving  curtain,  and  that  in  each  case  it  pro- 
duces a  murmuring  or  rustling  sound  —  and  finally, 
that  all  these  coincidences  occur  within  the  compass  of 
one  line,  and  are  as  numerous  and  peculiar  as  those 
which  Poe  insists  upon,  in  what  he  calls  the  brief  com- 
pass of  eight  or  sixteen  lines,  in  his  article  against 
Longfellow  and  Aldrich  (see  the  Longfellow  War  in  the 
Virginia  Edition  of  Poe's  Works,  vol.  xii,  pp.  41-106, 
especially  pp.  76-82).  Other  minute  resemblances 
might  be  pointed  out,  such  as  the  mention  in  both 
poems  of  the  lattice-window ;  but  this  would  be  less 

Citable  than  to  recognize  the  essential  originality  of 
's  conception  and  expression.  He  was  a  frank  ad- 
mirer of  Mrs.  Browning's  poetry,  and  dedicated  his 
chief  volume,  the  Raven  and  Other  Poems,  to  her  : 
'  To  the  Noblest  of  her  Sex  —  to  the  Author  of  "The 
Drama  of  Exile"  — to  Miss  Elizabeth  Barrett  of  Eng- 
land —  I  dedicate  this  volume,  with  the  most  enthusi- 
astic admiration  and  with  the  most  sincere  esteem.' 
It  is  to  be  noted  also  that  Mrs.  Browning  was  more 
fond  than  any  other  English  poet  of  the  refrain.  On 
Poe's  use  of  the  refrain,  and  also  of  the  repetend,  on 
which  point  he  may  be  best  compared  with  Coleridge, 
see  C.  A.  Smith's  Repetition  and  Parallelism  in  Enalish 
Verse,  J.  P.  Fruit's  The  Mind  and  Art  uf  Poe's 
Poetry,  etc. 

However  much  of  the  '  Raven '  may  have  been  sug- 
gested by  Poe's  predecessors,  it  suggested  even  more  to 
his  followers.  The  most  important  instance  of  this  (not 
forgetting  his  influence  on  Baudelaire  and  Mallarmg)  is 
perhaps  to  be  found  in  its  having  suggested  to  Rossetti 
'The  Blessed  Damozel.'  See  W.  M.  Rossetti's  Dante 
Gabriel  Rot'stti :  Hit  Family  Letters,  etc.,  1895,  vol.  i, 
p.  107  :  '"  The  Blessed  Damozel  "  was  written  with  a 
view  to  its  insertion  in  a  manuscript  family  magazine, 
of  brief  vitality.  In  1831  Rpssetti  gave  Mr.  Caine  an 
account  of  its  origin,  as  deriving  from  his  perusal  and 
admiration  of  Edgar  Poe's  "  Raven."  "  I  saw  "  (this  is 
Mr.  Caine's  version  of  Rossetti's  statement)  "  that  Poe 
had  done  the  utmost  it  was  possible  to  do  with  the 
grief  of  the  lover  on  earth,  and  I  determined  to  reverse 
the  condition,  and  give  utterance  to  the  yearning  of  the 
loved  one  in  heaven."  Along  with  "The  Raven  "  and 
other  poems  by  Poe,  "  Ulalume,"  "For  Annie," 
"The  Haunted  Palace,"  and  many  another  were  a 
deep  well  of  delight  to  Rossetti  in  all  these  years.  He 
once  wrote  a  parody  of  "Ulalume.'  I  do  not  rightly 
remember  it,  nor  has  it  left  a  vestige  behind.' 

On  the  time  and  place  of  composition  of  the  '  Raven,' 
see  the  long  note  in  the  Stedraan-Woodberry  edition  of 
the  Poems,  pages  156-9,  and  the  authorities  there  cited  ; 
the  last  pages  of  chapter  ix  in  Harrison's  Life  of  Poe; 
and  Ingram's  The  Raven,  referred  to  above. 


'  'T  is  some  visiter,'  I  muttered,   '  tapping 

at  my  chamber  door  — 
Only  this  and  nothing  more.' 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the 
bleak  December; 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought 
its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ;  —  vainly  I 
had  sought  to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sor- 
row for  the  lost  Lenore  —  :o 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the 

angels  name  Lenore  — 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of 
each  purple  curtain 

Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with'  fantastic  ter- 
rors never  felt  before ; 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart, 
I  stood  repeating 

'  T  is  some  visiter  entreating  entrance  at 
my  chamber  door  — 

Some  late  visiter  entreating  entrance  at  my 

chamber  door;  — 
This  it  is  and  nothing  more.' 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitat- 
ing then  no  longer, 

'  Sir,'   said  I,  '  or  Madam,  truly  your  for- 
giveness I  implore ;  20 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  .napping,  and  so  gently 
you  came  rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at 
my  chamber  door, 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you '  —  here 

I  opened  wide  the"  door; 
Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that   darkness  peering,  long   I 
stood  there  wondering,  fearing, 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  evei- 
dared  to  dream  before ; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  still- 
ness gave  no  token,  , 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the 
whispered  word,  '  Lenore  ! ' 

This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured 

back  the  word  '  Lenore  ! ' 
Merely  this  and  nothing  more.  30 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul 

within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard   a   tapping   somewhat 

loiider  than  before. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


"  Surely,'  said  I,  '  surely  that  is  something 

at  my  window  lattice; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this 

mystery  explore  — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this 

mystery  explore ;  — 
T  is  the  wind  and  nothing  more  ! ' 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with 
many  a  flirt  and  flutter 

In  there   stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the 
saintly  days  of  yore. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  min- 
ute stopped  or  stayed  he ; 

But,   with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched 
above  my  chamber  door  —  40 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above 

my  chamber  door  — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy 

into  smiling, 
By   the  grave   and  stern  decorum   of  the 

countenance  it  wore, 
^Though  thy   crest  be  shorn  and    shaven, 

thou,'  I  said,  '  art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering 

from  the  Nightly  shore  — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the 

Night's  Plutonian  shore  ! ' 
Quoth  the  Raven,  '  Nevermore.' 

Much   I   marvelled  fliis   ungainly  fowl  to 

hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning  —  little 

relevancy  bore;  50 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living 

human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above 

his  chamber  door  — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above 

his  chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as  '  Nevermore.' 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid 

bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one 

word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther   then  he  uttered  —  not  a 

feather  then  he  fluttered  — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered  '  Other 

friends  have  flown  before  — 
On  the  morrow  he  will   leave  me,  as  my 

hopes  have  flown  before.' 
Then  the  bird  said  '  Nevermore.'        60 


Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so 

aptly  spoken, 
'  Doubtless,'  said  I,  '  what  it  utters  is  its 

only  stock  and  store 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom 

unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his 

songs  one  burden  bore  — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy 

burden  bore 
Of  "  Never  —  nevermore."  ' 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy 
into  smiling, 

Straight  1  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front 
of  bird,  and  bust  and  door; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook 
myself  to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  omi- 
nous bird  of  yore  —  7t 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt, 

and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  '  Nevermore.' 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syl- 
lable expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned 
into  my  bosom's  core; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head, 
at  ease  reclining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp- 
light gloated  o'er, 

But  whose   velvet   violet  lining   with   the 

lamp-light  gloating  o'er, 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  per- 
fumed from  an  unseen  censer 

Swung  by  Seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled 
on  the  tufted  floor.  go 

'Wretch,'  I  cried,  'thy  God  hath  lent 
thee  —  by  these  angels  he  hath  sent 
thee 

Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy 
memories  of  Lenore ; 

Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe  and  for- 
get this  lost  Lenore  ! ' 
Quoth  the  Raven  '  Nevermore.' 

'  Prophet ! '  said  I,  '  thing  of  evil  !  prophet 

still,  if  bird  or  devil !  — 
Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest 

tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert 

land  enchanted  — 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 


51 


On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell  me 

truly,  I  implore  — 
Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell 

me  —  tell  me,  I  implore  !  ' 
Quoth  the  Raven  '  Nevermore.'          90 

'  Prophet  ! '     said    I,     '  thing  of    evil !  — 

prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by 

that  God  we  both  adore  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within 

the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the 

angels  name  Lenore  — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the 

angels  name  Lenore.' 
Quoth  the  Raven '  Nevermore.' 

'  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or 

fiend  ! '  I  shrieked,  upstarting  — 
'Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the 

Night's  Plutonian  shore*! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie 

thy  soul  hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  —  quit  the 

bust  above  my  door  !  100 

Take  thy  beak   from  out   my   heart,  and 

take  thy  form  from  off  my  door  ! ' 
Quoth  the  Raven '  Nevermore.' 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting, 
still  is  sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my 
chamber  door; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  de- 
mon's that  is  dreaming, 

A.nd   the   lamp-light    o'er   him   streaming 
throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies 

floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore  !  » 

1842-441 


1845. 


EULALIE  — A   SONG 


I  DWELT  alone 
In  a  world  of  moan, 
And  my  soul  was  a  stagnant  tide, 
Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became  my 

blushing  bride  — 

Till  the  yellow-haired   young  Eulalie  be- 
came my  smiling  bride. 

1  In  the  concluding  stanza  ...  I  convert  him  [the 
raven]  into  an  allegorical  emblem  or  personification  of 
Mournful  Remembrance,  out  of  the  Shadow  of  which 
the  poet  is  'lifted  nevermore.'  (PoB,  Works,  vol.  rii, 
p.  75.) 


Ah,  less  —  less  bright 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Than  the  eyes  of  the  radiant  girl  ! 
And  never  a  flake 
That  the  vapor  can  make 
With   the   moon-tints   of   purple   and 

pearl, 

Can  vie  with  the  modest  Eulalie's  most  un- 
regarded curl  — 

Can  compare  with  the  bright-eyed  Eulalie's 
most  humble  and  careless  curl. 

Now  Doubt  —  now  Pain 
Come  never  again, 

For  her  soul  gives  me  sigh  for  sigh, 
And  all  day  long 
Shines,  bright  and  strong, 
Astarte  within  the  sky, 
While  ever  to  her  dear  Eulalie  upturns  her 

matron  eye  — 

\\  hile  ever  to  her  young  Eulalie  upturns 
her  violet  eye. 

1845. 

ULA.LUME2 

THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober  ; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere  — 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere ; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year  ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir  — 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic,          10 
Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul  — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  vol- 
canic 

As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll  — 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole  — 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober,         20 
But  oui  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and 

sere  — 
Our    memories    were    treacherous   and 

sere  — 

*  Poe's  child-wife  Virginia  died  in  January  of  1847, 
and  this  poem  was  published  in  December.  See  the 
biographical  sketch. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And    we  marked  not   the  night  of  the 

year  — 

(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year  !) 
We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber  — 
(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down 

here)  — 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent         30 
And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn  — 
As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn  — 

At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 
And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 

Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 
Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn  — 

Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 
Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said  — '  She  is  warmer  than  Dian  : 
She  rolls  throiigh  an  ether  of  sighs  —  40 
She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs  : 

She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 
These   cheeks,  where   the    worm  never 
dies 

And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 
To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies  — 
To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies  — 

Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes  — 

Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 
With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes.'  50 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said  — '  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust  — 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust :  — 

Oh,  hasten  !  —  oh,  let  us  not  linger  ! 
Oh,  fly  !  —  let  us  fly  !  —  for  we  must.' 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 
Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust  — 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust  — 
Till    they    sorrowfully   trailed   in     the 
dust.  60 

I  replied  —  '  This  is  "nothing  but  dreaming  : 
Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 
Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light  ! 

Its  Sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  Hope  and  in  Beauty  to-night  :  — 
See  !  —  it   flickers  up   the   sky  through 
the  night ! 

Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 
And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright  — 


We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright,  7o 

Since  it  flickers  up   to  Heaven  through 
the  night.' 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom  — 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom  ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 
But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb  — 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb  ; 

And   I   said  —  '  What    is   written,    sweet 

sister, 

On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb  ? ' 
She  replied  —  '  Ulalume  —  Ulalume  — 
'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume  ! '     81 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the    leaves    that   were    crisped   and 

sere  — 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and 

sere, 

And  I  cried  — '  It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I   journeyed  —  I  journeyed  down 

here  — 
That  I  brought   a  dread   burden  down 

here  — 

On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here  ?  90 
Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber  — 

This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir  — 
Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir.' 
1847. 

TO  HELEN ! 

I  SAW  thee  once  —  once  only  —  years  ago : 
I  must  not  say  how  many  —  but  not  many. 
It  was  a  July  midnight;  and  from  out 
A    full-orbed  moon,  that,  like  thine  own 

soul,  soaring, 
Sought  a  precipitate  pathway  up  through 

heaven, 

1  The  occasion  of  Foe's  first  sight  of  Mrs.  Whitman 
is  romantically  described  as  follows :  — 

'  Po«  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  figure  wandering 
in  a  moonlit  garden  in  Providence,  on  his  way  from 
Boston,  when  he  visited  that  city  to  deliver  a  poem 
before  the  Lyceum  there.  Restless,  near  midnight,  he 
wandered  from  his  hotel  near  where  she  lived,  until  he 
saw  her  walking  in  a  garden.  He  related  the  incident 
afterwards  in  one  of  his  most  exquisite  poems,  worthy 
of  himself,  of  her,  and  of  the  most  exalted  passion.' 
(Harrison's  Life  of  Poe,  p.  284.)  See  also  Mrs.  Whit- 
man's Poems,  and  Woodberry's  Life  of  Poe,  pp.  308^ 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


53 


There  fell  a  silvery-silken  veil  of  light, 
With  quietude  and  sultriness  and  slumber, 
Upon  the  upturn'd  faces  of  a  thousand 
Roses  that  grew  in  an  enchanted  garden, 
Where  no  wind  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tip- 
toe —  10 
Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  these  roses 
That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light, 
Their  odorous  souls  in  an  ecstatic  death  — 
Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  these  roses 
That  smiled  and  died  in  this  parterre,  en- 
chanted 
By  thee,  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence. 

Clad  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 
I  saw  thee  half  reclining;  while  the  moon 
Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  the  roses, 
And  on  thine  own,  upturn'd  —  alas,  in  sor- 
row! 20 

Was  it  not  Fate,  that,  on  this  July  mid- 
night— 

Was  it  not  Fate,  (whose  nam£  is  also  Sor- 
row), 

That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden- 
gate, 

To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering 
roses  ? 

No  footstep  stirred:  the  hated  world  all 
slept, 

Save  only  thee  and  me.  (Oh,  heaven  !  — 
oh,  God  ! 

How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  those  two 
words  !) 

Save  only  thee  and  me.  I  paused  —  I 
looked  — 

And  in  an  instant  all  things  disappeared. 

(Ah,  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  en- 
chanted !)  3o 

The  pearly  lustre  of  the  moon  went  out: 

The  mossy  banks  and  the  meandering  paths, 

The  happy  flowers  and  the  repining  trees, 

Were  seen  no  more :  the  very  roses'  odors 

Died  in  the  arms  of  the  adoring  airs. 

All  —  all  expired  save  thee  —  save  less 
than  thou: 

Save  only  the  divine  light  in  thine  eyes  — 

Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes. 

I  saw  but  them  —  they  were  the  world  to 
me. 

I  saw  but  them  —  saw  only  them  for 
hours  —  40 

Saw  only  them  until  the  moon  went  down. 

What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  en- 
written 


Upon  those  crystalline,  celestial  spheres  \ 
How  dark  a  woe  !  yet  how  sublime  a  hope  J 
How  silently  serene  a  sea  of  pride  ! 
How  daring  an  ambition  !  yet  how  deep  — 
How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love  ! 

But  now,  at  length,  dear  Dian  sank  from 

sight, 

Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud; 
And   thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the   entombing 

trees  so 

Didst  glide  away.    Only  thine  eyes  remained. 

They  would  not  go  —  they  never  yet  have 

gone. 
Lighting   my  lonely   pathway   home   that 

night, 
They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have) 

since. 
They  follow  me  —  they  lead  me  through 

the  years 

They  are  my  ministers  —  yet  I  their  slave. 
Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle  — 
My  duty,  to  be  saved  by  their  bright  light, 
And  purified  in  their  electric  fire, 
And  sanctified  in  their  elysiaa  fire.  60 

They  fill  my  soul  with  Beauty  (which  is 

Hope), 
And  are  far  up  in  Heaven  —  the  stars  I 

kneel  to 

In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night; 
While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 
I  see  them  still  —  two  sweetly  scintillant 
Venuses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun  ! 
1848.  1848. 


THE   BELLS  l 


HEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells  — 

Silver  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody 
foretells  ! 

1  It  was  shortly  after  this,  during  the  summer,  that 
Poe  wrote  the  first  rough  draft  of  '  The  Bells,'  at  Mrs. 
Shew's  residence.  '  One  day  he  came  in,'  sAie  records, 
'  and  said,  "  Marie  Louise,  I  have  to  write  a  poem  ;  I 
have  no  feeling,  no  sentiment,  no  inspiration." '  His 
hostess  persuaded  him  to  have  some  tea.  It  was  served 
in  the  conservatory,  the  windows  of  which  were  open, 
and  admitted  the  sound  of  neighboring  church  bells. 
Mrs.  Shew  said,  playfully,  'Here  is  paper;'  but  the 
poet,  declining  it,  declared,  '  I  so  dislike  the  noise  of 
bells  to-night,  I  cannot  write.  I  have  no  subject 
—  I  am  exhausted.'  The  lady  then  took  up  the  pen, 
and,  pretending  to  mimic  his  style,  wrote,  'The  Bells, 
by  E.  A.  Poe;  '  and  then  in  pure  sportiveness,  '  The 
Bells,  the  little  silver  Bells,'  Poe  finishing  off  the  stanza. 
She  then  suggested  for  the  next  verse, '  The  heavy  iron 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


How  they  tiukle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night  ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme,  10 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically 

wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 

From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the 
bells. 


Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells  — 

Golden  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony 

foretells  ! 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight  !  — 
From  the  molten-golden  notes,       20 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she 
gloats 

Bells ;'  and  this  Poe  also  expanded  into  a  stanza.  He 
next  copied  out  the  complete  poem,  and  headed  it, '  By 
Mrs.  M.  L.  Shew,'  remarking  that  it  was  her  poem,  as 
she  had  suggested  and  composed  so  much  of  it.  (IN- 
ORAM,  Life  of  Pof,.) 

Such  was  the  beginning  of  the  poem  ;  its  develop- 
ment is  described  by  the  editor  of  Sartain's  Union 
Magazine,  a  month  after  it  was  first  published  :  '  This 
poem  came  into  our  possession  about  a  year  since.  It 
then  consisted  of  eighteen  lines  !  They  were  as  follows  : 

THE  BELLS -A  SONG 

The  bells!  —  hear  the  bells ! 
The  merry  wedding-bells ! 
The  little  silver  hefts  ! 
How  fairy-like  »  melody  there  swell* 
Frtra'the  silver  tinklii 


on 


:  silvei 
Is,  bei: 


bells,  bells,  bells"? ' 
Of  the  bells  1 


The  bells  !  —  ah.  the  bells  I 
The  heavy  iron  bells  ! 
Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bell*  I 

Hear  the  knells  ! 

low  horrible  a  monody  there  float* 
From  their  throats  — 
From  their  deep-toned  throats  ! 
low  I  shudder  at  the  notes 

From  the  melancholy  throats 


'  About  six  months  after  this  we  received  the  poem 
enlarged  and  altered  nearly  to  its  present  size  and 
form  ;  and  about  three  months  since,  the  author  sent 
another  alteration  and  enlargement,  in  which  condition 
the  poem  was  left  at  the  time  of  his  death.' 

Professor  Woodberry  suggests  that  Poe  probably  had 
the  idea  of  his  poem  in  mind  for  some  time  before  Mrs. 
Shew  induced  him  to  begin  writing  it,  and  remarks  on 
'  his  frequent  reference  to  the  magical  sound  of  bells 
throughout  his  literary  life.'  (Life  of  Poe,  pp.  302-304.) 
He  also  quotes  a  striking  parallel  passage  from  Cha- 
teaubriand's Genie  du  Christianisme. 


On  the  moon  ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What    a   gush   of    euphony   voluminously 
wells  ! 

How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future !  —  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels  30 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the 
bells! 


Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells  — 

Brazen  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now  their  turbulency 

tells  ! 

In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright !  4o 
.  Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of 

the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and 

frantic  fire, 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now  —  now  to  sit,  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon.  50 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair  ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roarJ 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear,  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ;  60 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger 
of  the  bells  — 

Of  the  bells  —  , 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 

In  the  clamor  and  the  clanging  of  the 
bells! 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 


55 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells  —          70 

Iron  bells! 
What  a   world   of   solemn   thought   their 

monody  compels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people  —  ah,  the  people  — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple,  80 

All  alone, 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human  — 

They  are  Ghouls:  — 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls:  — 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  90 

Rolls 

A  psean  from  the  bells  ! ' 
And liis  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  pjean  of  the  bells  ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  psean  of  the  bells:  — 

Of  the  bells: 

Keeping  time,  time,  time  too 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells:  — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  :— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the 

bells. 
1848-49,  1849. 

TO   MY   MOTHER1 

BECAUSE  I  feel  that,  in  the  Heavens  above, 
The  angels,  whispering  to  one  another, 

1  Mrs.  Clemm,  Virginia's  mother.   See  the  biograph- 
ical sketch. 


Can  find,  among   their  burning   terms  of 

love, 

None  so  devotional  as  that  of  '  Mother,' 
Therefore  by  that  dear  name  I  long  have 

called  you  — 

You  who  are  more  than  mother  unto  me, 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where  Death 

installed  you, 

In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My  mother  —  my  own  mother,  who   died 

early, 

Was  but  the  mother  of  myself;  but  you 
Are  mother  to  the  one  I  loved  so  dearly, 
And  thus  are  dearer  than  the  mother  I 

knew 

By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 
Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  soul-life. 

1849. 

FOR   ANNIE2 

THANK  Heaven  !  the  crisis  — 

The  danger  is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last  — 
And  the  fever  called  '  Living  ' 

Is  conquered  at  last. 

Sadly,  I  know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length  —  10 

But  no  matter  !  —  I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composedly 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead  — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 

The  sighing  and  sobbing,  2o 

Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 
At  heart:  —ah  that  horrible, 

Horrible  throbbing ! 

8  See  Harrison's  Life  of  Poe,  pp.  301,  302  ;  and 
chapters  xi  and  xii  of  the  Letters,  especially  pp.  34'2- 
344,  the  letter  of  March  23,  1849,  quoted  also  in  In- 
(Tram's  Life  of  Poe.  In  this  letter  was  enclosed  the 
poem,  of  which  Poe  says:  'I  think  the  lines  "For 
Annie  "  much  the  best  I  have  ever  written.' 

The  last  two  lines  of  the  first  stanza  were  suggested 
by  Longfellow  as  an  inscription  for  the  monument 
tardily  erected  over  Poe's  grave  in  1875. 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


The  sickness  —  the  nausea  — 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

The  pitiless  pain  — 

She  fondly  caressed, 

Have  ceased  with  the  fever 

And  then  I  fell  gently 

That  maddened  my  brain  — 

To  sleep  on  her  breast  — 

With  the  fever  called  '  Living  ' 

Deeply  to  sleep 

That  burned  in  my  brain.                 30 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

And  oh  !  of  all  tortures 

When  the  light  was  extinguished, 

That  torture  the  worst 

She  covered  me  warm,                     80 

Has  abated  —  the  terrible 

And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

Torture  of  thirst 

To  keep  me  from  harm  — 

For  the  napthaline  river 

To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

Of  Passion  accurst  :  — 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 

I  have  drank  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst:  — 

And  I  lie  so  composedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 

Of  a  water  that  flows, 

(Knowing  her  love) 

With  a  lullaby  sound,                       40 

That  you  fancy  me  dead  — 

From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 
Feet  under  ground  — 

And  I  rest  so  contentedly, 
Now,  in  my  bed,                                go 

From  a  cavern  not  very  far 

(With  her  love  at  my  breast) 

Down  under  ground. 

That  you  fancy  me  dead  — 

That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

And  ah  !  let  it  never 

•     Thinking  me  dead:  — 

Be  foolishly  said 

That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

And  narrow  my  bed; 

Than  all  of  the  many 

For  a  man  never  slept 

Stars  of  the  sky, 

In  a  different  bed  —                          50 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie  — 

And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

It  glows  with  the  light 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie  —           100 

With  the  thought  of  the  light 

My  tantalized  spirit 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 

Here  blandly  reposes, 

1849. 

Forgetting,  or  never 

Regretting,  its  roses  — 

ANNABEL   LEE 

Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses: 

IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 
In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may 

Lying,  it  fancies                                 60 

know 

A  holier  odor 

By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE; 

About  it,  of  pansies  — 

And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other 

A  rosemary  odor, 

thought 

Commingled  with  pansies  — 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

Puritan  pansies. 

/  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more 

Bathing  in  many 

than  love  — 

A  dream  of  the  truth 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE  —                    w 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie  —            70 

With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of 

Drowned  in  a  bath 

heaven 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


57 


And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  awa}-  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea.  20 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me  — 
Yes !  —  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men 

know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by 

night, 
Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than 
the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we  — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above,  30 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  : 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bring- 
ing me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE, 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the 

.  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  : 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by 
the  side 


Of  my  darling  —  my  darling  —  my  life  and 

my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea  —      40 
In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


ELDORADO 
GAILY  bedight, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long, 

Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old  — 

This  knight  so  bold  — 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 

Fell  as  he  found 

No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  Eldorado. 

And,  as  his  strength 

Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow  — 

'  Shadow,'  said  he, 

'  Where  can  it  be  — 
This  land  of  Eldorado  ? ' 

'  Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Ride,  boldly  ride,' 

The  shade  replied,  — 
'  If  you  seek  for  Eldorado.' 

1850. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


GOOD-BYE  i 

GOOD-BYE,  proud  world  !  I  'm  going  home : 
Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I  'in  not  thine. 
Long  through  thy  weary  crowds  I  roam ; 
A  river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 
Long  I  've  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam ; 
But  now,  proud  world  !  I  'm  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  Flattery's  fawning  face; 
To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace; 
To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye; 
To  supple  Office,  low  and  high;  10 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street; 
To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet; 
To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come; 
Good-bye,  proud  world!  I  'm  going  home. 

I  am  going  to  my  own  hearth-stone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone,  — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned ; 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay,  20 

And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools  and  the  learned  clan; 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ? 
1823.  1839. 

1  In  sending  these  verses  to  Rev.  James  Freeman 
Clarke,  in  1839,  Emerson  said :  '  They  were  written 
sixteen  years  ago,  when  I  kept  school  in  Boston,  and 
lived  in  a  corner  of  Roxbury  called  Canterbury.  They 
have  a  slight  misanthropy,  a  shade  deeper  than  belongs 
tome.  .  .  .' 

This  '  corner  of  Roxbury '  is  now  a  part  of  Franklin 
Park.  It  is  called  '  Schoolmaster's  Hill,'  and  one  of 
its  rocks  bears  the  inscription  :  '  Near  this  rock,  A.  D. 
1823-1825,  was  the  house  of  Schoolmaster  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson.  Here  some  of  his  earlier  poems  were  written; 
among  them  that  from  which  the  following  lines  are 
taken.  .  .  .'  There  follows  the  last  stanza  of  this 


THOUGHT 

I  AM  not  poor,  but  I  am  proud, 

Of  one  inalienable  right, 
Above  the  envy  of  the  crowd,  — 

Thought's  holy  light. 

Better  it  is  than  gems  or  gold, 

And  oh!  it  cannot  die, 
But  thought  will  glow  when  the  sun 

grows  cold, 
And  mix  with  Deity. 
1823.  1904. 

THE    RIVER2 

AND  I  behold  once  more 
My  old  familiar  haunts;  here  the  blue  river, 
The  same  blue  wonder  that  my  infant  eye 
Admired,  sage  doubting  whence  the  travel- 
ler came,  — 
Whence  brought  his  sunny  bubbles  ere  he 

washed 

The  fragrant  flag-roots  in  my  father's  fields, 
And  where  thereafter  in  the  world  he  went. 
Look,  here  he  is,  unaltered,  save  that  now 
He  hath  broke  his  banks  and  flooded  all 
the  vales  10 

With  his  redundant  waves. 
Here  is  the  rock  where,  yet  a  simple  child, 
I  caught  with  bended  pin  my  earliest  fish, 
Much  triumphing,  —  and  these  the  fields 
Over  whose  flowers  I  chased  the  butterflv, 
A  blooming  hunter  of  a  fairy  fine. 
And   hark !    where   overhead   the   ancient 

crows 

Hold  their  sour  conversation  in  the  sky :  — 
These  are  the  same,  but  I  am  not  the  same, 
But  wiser  than  I  was,  and  wise  enough      19 
Not  to  regret  the  changes,  tho'  they  cost 
Me  many  a  sigh.    Oh,  call  not  nature  dumb; 

1  This  poem  should  be  compared  with  Wordsworth's 
1  Lines  left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree,'  both  because 
the  two  poems  are  similar  in  thought  and  mood,  and 
because  each  marks  the  same  point  of  development  in 
its  author's  thought  and  powers  of  expression.  This  was 
written  when  Emprson  was  twenty-four  years  old,  and 
Wordsworth's  when  he  was  twenty-five. 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON 


59 


These  trees  and  stones  are  audible  to  me, 
These  idle  flosvers,  that  tremble  in  the  wind, 
I  understand  their  faery  syllables, 
And  all  their  sad  significance.    The  wind, 
That  rustles  down  the  well-known  forest 

road  — 

It  hath  a  sound  more  eloquent  than  speech. 
The  stream,  the  trees,  the  grass,  the  sighing 

wind, 

All  of  them  utter  sounds  of  'monishment 
And  grave  parental  love.  3° 

They  are  not  of  our  race,  they  seem  to  say, 
And   yet    have   knowledge   of   our    moral 

race, 

And  somewhat  of  majestic  sympathy, 
Something  of  pity  for  the  puny  clay, 
That  holds  and  boasts  the  immeasurable 

mind. 

I  feel  as  I  were  welcome  to  these  trees 
After  long  months  of  weary  wandering, 
Acknowledged  by  their  hospitable  boughs; 
They  know  me  as  their  sou,  for  side   by 

side, 

They  were  coeval  with  my  ancestors,        40 
Adorned  with  them  my  country's  primitive 

times, 
And  soon  may  give  my  dust  their  funeral 

shade. 
7*27.  1904. 

LINES    TO   ELLEN 

TELL  me,  maiden,  dost  thou  use 

Thyself  thro'  Nature  to  diffuse  ? 

All  the  angles  of  the  coast 

Were  tenanted  by  thy  sweet  ghost, 

Bore  thy  colors  every  flower, 

Thine  each  leaf  and  berry  bore; 

All  wore  thy  badges  and  thy  favors 

In  their  scent  or  in  their  savors, 

Every  moth  with  painted  wing, 

Every  bird  in  carolling, 

The  wood-boughs  with  thy  manners  waved, 

The  rocks  uphold  thy  name  engraved, 

The  sod  throbbed  friendly  to  my  feet, 

And  the  sweet  air  with  thee  was  sweet. 

The  saffron  cloud  that  floated  warm 

Studied  thy  motion,  took  thy  form, 

And  in  his  airy  road  benign 

Recalled  thy  skill  in  bold  design, 

Or  seemed  to  use  his  privilege 

To  gaze  o'er  the  horizon's  edge, 

To  search  where  now  thy  beauty  glowed, 

Or  made  what  other  purlieus  proud. 

1829.  1904. 


TO    ELLEN    AT   THE    SOUTH 

THE  green  grass  is  bowing, 

The  morning  wind  is  in  it; 
'T  is  a  tune  worth  thy  knowing, 

Though  it  change  every  minute. 

'T  is  a  tune  of  the  Spring; 

Every  year  plays  it  over 
To  the  robin  on  the  wing, 

And  to  the  pausing  lover. 

O'er  ten  thousand,  thousand  acres, 

Goes  light  the  nimble  zephyr;  te 

The  Flowers  —  tiny  sect  of  Shakers  — 
Worship  him  ever. 

Hark  to  the  winning  sound  ! 

They  summon  thee,  dearest,  — 
Saying,    'We   have  dressed  for  thee  the 
ground, 

Nor  yet  thou  appearest. 

'  O  hasten;  't  is  our  time, 

Ere  yet  the  red  Summer 
Scorch  our  delicate  prime, 

Loved  of  bee,  —  the  tawny  hummer,     m 

'  O  pride  of  thy  race  ! 

Sad,  in  sooth,  it  were  to  ours, 
If  our  brief  tribe  miss  thy  face, 

We  poor  New  England  flowers. 

'  Fairest,  choose  the  fairest  members 

Of  our  lithe  society; 
June's  glories  and  September's 

Show  our  love  and  piety. 

'  Thou  shalt  command  us  all,  — 
April's  cowslip,  summer's  clover, 

To  the  gentian  in  the  fall,  30 

Blue-eyed  pet  of  blue-eyed  lover. 

4  O  come,  then,  quickly  come  ! 

We  are  budding,  we  are  blowing; 
And  the  wind  that  we  perfume 

Sings  a  tune  that 's  worth  the  knowing.' 
1829.  1843. 

TO   ELLEN 

AND  Ellen,  when  the  graybeard  years 
Have  brought  us  to  life's  evening  hour, 

And  all  the  crowded  Past  appears 
A  tiny  scene  of  sun  and  shower, 


6o 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Then,  if  I  read  the  page  aright 

Where  Hope,  the  soothsayer,  reads  our 

lot, 
Thyself  shalt  own  the  page  was  bright, 

Well  that  we  loved,  woe  had  we  not, 

When  Mirth  is  duab  and  Flattery  's  fled, 
And  mute  thy  music's  dearest  tone, 

When  all  but  Love  itself  is  dead 
And  all  but  deathless  Reason  gone. 

1829.  1904. 

THINE   EYES   STILL   SHINED 

THINE  eyes  still  shined  for  me,  though  far 
I  lonely  roved  the  land  or  sea: 

As  I  behold  yon  evening  star, 
Which  yet  beholds  not  me. 

This  morn  I  climbed  the  misty  hill 
And  roamed  the  pastures  through; 

How  danced  thy  form  before  my  path 
Amidst  the  deep-eyed  dew  ! 

When  the  redbird  spread  his  sable  wing, 

And  showed  his  side  of  flame; 
When  the  rosebud  ripened  to  the  rose, 

In  both  I  read  thy  name. 
1829  or  1830.  1846.1 


WRITTEN   IN    NAPLES  2 

WE  are  what  we  are  made;  each  following 

day 
Is  the  Creator  of  our  human  mould 

1  The  first  collected  edition  of  Emerson's  Poems, 
which  bears  the  date  1847,  and  is  listed  under  that  year 
in  the  bibliographies,  actually  appeared  in  1846. 

*  Remember  the  Sunday  morning  in  Naples  when  I 
•aid, '  This  moment  is  the  truest  vision,  the  best  specta- 
cle I  have  seen  amid  all  the  wonders ;  and  this  moment, 
this  vision,  I  might  have  had  in  my  own  closet  in  Bos- 
ton.' (EMERSON'S  Journal,  1834.) 

Compare  the  essay  on  '  Self-Reliance  : '  — 

'  Our  first  journeys  discover  to  us  the  indifference  of 
places.  At  home  I  dream  that  at  Naples,  at  Rome,  I 
can  be  intoxicated  with  beauty  and  lose  my  sadness.  I 
pack  my  trunk,  embrace  my  friends,  embark  on  the  sea 
and  at  last  wake  up  in  Naples,  and  there  beside  me  is 
the  stern  fact,  the  sad  self,  unrelenting,  identical,  that 
I  fled  from.  I  seek  the  Vatican  and  the  palaces.  I  af- 
fect to  be  intoxicated  with  sights  and  suggestions,  but 
I  am  not  intoxicated.  My  giant  goes  with  me  wherever 
I  go.' 

Compare  also  '  The  Day's  Ration,'  and  Whittier's 
'The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn.' 

(The  illustrative  passages  from  Emerson's  Journal 
given  in  these  notes,  and  many  of  the  parallel  passages 
from  Emerson's  essays,  are  quoted  by  Mr.  E.  W.  Em- 
erson in  his  exceedingly  valuable  notes  to  the  '  Centen- 
ary Edition  '  of  the  Poems,  or  in  his  Emerson  in  Con- 
cord.) 


Not  less  than  was  the  first;  the  all-wise  God 
Gilds  a  few  points  in  every  several  life, 
And  as  each  flower  upon  the  fresh  hillside 
And  every  colored  petal  of  each  flower, 
Is  sketched  and  dyed,  each  with  a  new  de- 
sign, 

Its  spot  of  purple,  and  its  streak  of  brown, 
So  each   man's  life  shall  have  its  proper 

lights, 

And  a  few  joys,  a  few  peculiar  charms, 
For  him  round-in  the  melancholy  hours 
And  reconcile  him  to  the  common  days. 
Not  many  men  see  beauty  in  the  fogs 
Of  close  low  pine-woods  in  a  river  town; 
Yet  unto  me  not  morn's  magnificence, 
Nor  the  red  rainbow  of  a  summer  eve, 
Nor  Rome,  nor  joyful  Paris,  nor  the  halls 
Of  rich  men  blazing  hospitable  light, 
Nor  wit,  nor  eloquence,  —  no,  nor  even  the 

song 

Of  any  woman  that  is  now  alive,  — 
Hath  such  a  soul,  such  divine  influence, 
Such  resurrection  of  the  happy  past, 
As  is  to  me  when  I  behold  the  morn 
Ope  in  such  low  moist  roadside,  and  beneath 
Peep   the   blue  violets   out   of   the   black 

loam, 

Pathetic  silent  poets  that  sing  to  me 
Thine  elegy,  sweet  singer,  sainted  wife.3 

1833. 


1883. 


WRITTEN    AT    ROME4 


ALONE   in   Rome.    Why,  Rome   is   lonely 

too;  — 

Besides,  you  need  not  be  alone ;  the  soul 
Shall  have  society  of  its  own  rank. 
Be  great,  be  true,  and  all  the  Scipios, 
The  Catos,  the  wise  patriots  of  Rome, 
Shall  flock  to  you  and  tarry  by  your  side, 
And  comfort  you  with  their  high  company. 
Virtue  alone  is  sweet  society, 
It  keeps  the  key  to  all  heroic  hearts, 
And  opens  you  a  welcome  in  them  all. 
You  must  be  like  them  if  you  desire  them, 
Scorn  trifles  and  embrace  a  better  aim 
Than  wine  or  sleep  or  praise; 
Hunt  knowledge  as  the  lover  wooes  a  maid, 

3  Emerson's  first  wife,  the  '  Ellen  '  of  the  previous 
poems,  died  of  consumption  after  they  had  been  mar- 
ried only  a  year  and  a  half. 

4  Don't  you  see  you  are  the  Universe  to  yourself  ? 
You  carry  your  fortunes  in  your  own  hand.   Change  of 
place  won't  mend  the  matter.   You  will  weave  the  same 
web  at  Pernambuco  as  at   Boston,   if  you  have  only 
learned  how  to  make  one  texture.     (Journal,  Divinity 
Hall,  Cambridge,  November,  1827.) 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


And  ever  in  the  strife  of  your  own  thoughts 
Obey  the  nobler  impulse;  that  is  Rome  : 
That  shall  command  a  senate  to  your  side; 
For  there  is  no  might  in  the  universe 
That  can  contend  with  love.   It  reigns  for- 
ever. 

Wait  then,  sad  friend,  wait  in  majestic  peace 
The  hour  of  heaven.   Generously  trust 
Thy  fortune's  web  to  the  beneficent  hand 
That  until  now  has  put  his  world  in  fee 
To  thee.     He  watches  for  thee  still.     His 

love 

Broods  over  thee,  and  as  God  lives  in  heaven, 
However  long  thou  walkest  solitary, 
The  hour  of  heaven  shall  come,  the  man  ap- 
pear. 
1833.  1883. 

WEBSTER1 

ILL  fits  the  abstemious  Muse  a  crown  to 

weave 

For  living  brows;  ill  fits  them  to  receive: 
And  yet,  if  virtue  abrogate  the  law, 
One   portrait  —  fact   or   fancy  —  we   may 

draw; 
A  form  which  Nature   cast  in  the  heroic 

mould 

Of  them  who  rescued  liberty  of  old; 
He,  when  the  rising  storm  of  party  roared, 
Brought  his  great  forehead  to  the  council 

board, 
There,  while  hot  heads  perplexed  with  fears 

the  state, 

Calm  as  the  morn  the  manly  patriot  sate; 
Seemed,  when  at  last  his   clarion  accents 

broke, 

As  if  the  conscience  of  the  country  spoke. 
Not  on  its  base  Monadnoc  surer  stood, 
Than   he  to  common   sense   and   common 

good: 
No   mimic;   from   his   breast   his   counsel 

drew, 
Believed  the  eloquent  was  aye  the  true; 

1  The  only  passage  from  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  poem 
of  1834  which  has  been  preserved  in  Emerson's  Works. 
After  Webster's  death  he  wrote  (1854),  with  uninten- 
tional injustice,  — 

W  hy  did  all  manly  sifts  in  Webster  fail  ? 
He  wrote  on  Nature's  grandest  brow,  For  Sale. 
Compare  Whittier's  arraignment  of  Webster  in  '  Icha- 
tx»d,'  and  his  partial  retractation  in  '  Tlie  Lost  Occa- 
sion.'  Most  of  the  New  England   abolitionists,  many 
of  whom,  so  long  as  the  party  of  slavery  was  in  power, 
were  quite  willing  to  disrupt  the  Union  rather  than  to 
submit  to  its  pro-slavery  laws,  could  never  forgive  or 
at  all   understand  Webster's  position  in  setting  the 
Union  above  all  else,  even  abolition. 


He  bridged  the  gulf  from  th'  alway  good 

and  wise 

To  that  within  the  vision  of  small  eyes. 
Self-centred;  when  he  launched  the  genuine 

word 

It  shook  or  captivated  all  who  heard, 
Ran  from  his  mouth  to  mountains  and  the 

sea, 
And  burned  in  noble  hearts  proverb  and 

prophecy. 


THE   RHODORA: 

ON    BEING    ASKED,    WHENCE    IS   THE 
FLOWER  ? 

IN  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  soli- 
tudes, 

I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its   leafless   blooms  in  a  damp 

nook, 

To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made  the  black  water  with   their  beauty 

gay; 

Here  might  the  redbird  come  his  plumes 

to  cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  ar- 
ray. 

Rhodora  !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 
Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for 

seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being: " 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose  ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew: 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 
The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there 

brought  you. 
1834.  1839. 

EACH   AND   ALL 

LITTLE  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked 

clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm. 

*  Compare  the  chapter  on  Beauty,  in  Emerson's 
1  Nature  : '  '  This  element  [Bmnty]  I  call  an  ultimate 
end.  No  reason  can  be  asked  or  given  why  the  soul 
seeks  beauty.  Beauty,  in  its  largest  and  profoundest 
sense,  is  one  expression  for  the  universe.  .  .  .  The 
ancient  Greeks  called  the  world  KOCT/LKK,  Beauty.' 

Compare  also  the  'Michael  Ancelo  :  '  'Beauty  can- 
not  be  defined.  Like  Truth,  it  is  an  ultimate  aim  of 
the  human  being.' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 
Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 
Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 
Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  you  Alpine 

height; l 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent.  10 
All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 
I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky ; — 
He   sang  to  my  ear,  —  they  sang  to  my 

eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore; 
The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave  20 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 
And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 
I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 
I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home; 
But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 
With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  up- 
roar.2 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 
As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed,         30 
Nor  knew  her  beautyrs  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 
At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 
Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the 

cage;  — 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 
A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 
Then  I  said,  '  I  covet  truth ; 
Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat; 
I   leave    it    behind   with    the    games    of 

youth: ' — 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet  40 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 
Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 

1  Buonaparte  was  sensible  to  the  music  of  bells. 
Hearing  the  bell  of  a  parish  church,  he  would  pause, 
aud  his  voice  faltered  as  he  said,  '  Ah !  that  reminds 
me  of  the  first  years  I  spent  at  Brienne;  I  was  then 
happy.'  (Journal,  1844.) 

-  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy  going  upon  the  beach 
and  being  charmed  with  the  colors  and  forms  of  the 
shells.  1  picked  up  many  and  put  them  in  my  pocket. 
When  I  got  home  I  could  find  nothing  that  I  gathered 
—  nothing  but  some  dry,  ugly  mussel  and  snail  shells. 
Thence  1  learned  that  Composition  was  more  important 
than  the  beauty  of  individual  forms  to  Effect.  On  the 
shore  they  lay  wet  and  social,  by  the  sea  and  under  the 
sky.  (Journal,  May  16,  1834.) 


I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 
Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 
Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground; 
Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 
Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 
Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 
The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird  ;  — 
Beauty  through  my  senses  stole;  50 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 
1S34  ?  1839. 

THE   APOLOGY8 

THINK  me  not  unkind  and  rude 

That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen; 

I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook; 

Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 
Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 
For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought; 

Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  't  is  figured  in  the  flowers  ; 

Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong; 
A  second  crop  thine  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song.* 
1834  f  1846. 


»  Compare    Wordsworth's 
ly,'  and  '  Th 


Expostulation  and  Re- 
ply,' and  '  The  Tables  Turned.' 

Compare  also  a  passage  in  Emerson's  description  of 
Thoreau,  as  reported  by  Charles  J.  Woodbury  :  — 

'  Men  of  note  would  come  to  talk  with  him. 

'  "  I  don't  know,"  he  would  say  ;  "  perhaps  a  minute 
would  be  enough  for  both  of  us." 

'  "  But  I  come  to  walk  with  you  when  you  take  your 

*"'  Ah',  walking  —that  is  my  holy  time."  '  (WooD- 
BtJKT'g  Talks  with  Emerson,  p.  80.) 

4  Compare  the  beautiful  lines  in  Emerson's  poem, 
'  The  Dirge,'  1838  :  — 

Knows  he  who  tills  this  lonely  field 

To  reap  its  scanty  corn, 
What  mvstic  fruit  his  acres  yield 
At  midnight  and  at  morn  ? 


In  the  long  sunny  aftemo 

The  plain  was  full  of  gti 

I  wandered  up.  I  wanderei 


afternoon 

Rlmsts  ; 

andered  down. 
Beset  by  pensive  hosts. 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON 


CONCORD    HYMN* 

SUNG  AT  THE   COMPLETION   OF   THE  BAT- 
TLE  MONUMENT,   JULY   4,    1837 

BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  urffurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward 
creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

1837.  1837. 


THE   HUMBLE-BEE2 

BURLY,  dozing  humble-bee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone  ! 


1  Compare  Emerson's  '  Historical  Discourse  at  Con- 
cord, September    12,  1835,'  and  his  'Address  at  the 
Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Concord  Fight,'  espe- 
cially a  passage  in  the  first  of  these  addresses,  describ- 
ing the  battle  and  its  motives  :  '  These  poor  farmers 
who  came  up,  that  day,  to  defend  their  native 'soil, 
acted  from  the  simplest  instincts.    They  did  not  know 
<t  was  a  deed  of  fame  they  were  doing,'  etc. 

The  first  quatrain  of  the  poem  is  now  inscribed  on 
the  Battle  Monument  at  Concord. 

Emerson's  grandfather,  William  Emerson,  was  minis- 
ter at  Concord  in  1775  ;  in  his  pulpit  he  strongly  advo- 
cated resistance  to  the  British,  and  when  the  day  of  the 
fight  came,  he  was  among  the  '  embattled  farmers.' 
The  fight  took  place  near  his  own  house,  later  known 
as  '  The  old  Manse,'  and  the  home  successively  of  Emer- 
son and  of  Hawthorne.  (See  Bartlett's  Concord,  Hn- 
ioric  and  Literary.)  '  Let  us  stand  our  ground,'  he  said 
to  the  minutemen  ;  '  if  we  die,  let  us  die  here.' 

2  Containing  much  of  the  quintessence  of    poetry. 

(LONGFELLOW.) 

Yesterday  in  the  woods  I  followed  the  fine  humble- 
bee  with  rhymes  and  fancies  fine.  .  .  .  The  humble-bee 
and  pine-warbler  seem  to  me  the  proper  objects  of  at- 
tention in  these  disastrous  times.  (Journal,  1837.) 


Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines.  10 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon; 
Epicurean  of  June; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum,  — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days,       20 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

And  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  a  color  of  romance, 

And  infusing  subtle  heats, 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 

Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace  30 

With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean  4o 

Hath  my  insect  never  seen; 

But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple-sap  and  daffodels, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 

Succory  to  match  the  sky, 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 

Scented  fern,  and  agrimony,       , 

Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue 

And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among; 

All  beside  was  unknown  waste,  50 

All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher ! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 

"  :>st  mock  at  fate  and  care, 


64 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep;  60 

Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 
1837  ?  1839. 

URIEL1 

IT  fell  in  the  ancient  periods 

Which  the  brooding  soul  surveys, 

Or  ever  the  wild  Time  coined  itself 
Into  calendar  months  and  days. 

This  was  the  lapse  of  Uriel 

Which  in  Paradise  befell. 

Once,  among  the  Pleiads  walking, 

Seyd  overheard  the  young  gods  talking; 

And  the  treason,  too  long  pent, 

To  his  ears  was  evident.  10 

The  young  deities  discussed 

Laws  of  form,  and  metre  just, 

Orb,  quintessence,  and  sunbeams, 

What  subsisteth  and  what  seems. 

One,  with  low  tones  that  decide, 

And  doubt  and  reverend  use  defied, 

With  a  look  that  solved  the  sphere, 

And  stirred  the  devils  everywhere, 

Gave  his  sentiment  divine 

Against  the  being  of  a  line.  20 

'  Line  in  nature  is  not  found; 

Unit  and  universe  are  round ; 

In  vain  produced,  all  rays  return; 

Evil  will  bless,  and  ice  will  burn.' 

As  Uriel  spoke  with  piercing  eye, 

A  shudder  ran  around  the  sky; 

The  stern  old  war-gods  shook  their  heads, 

The  seraphs  frowned  from  myrtle-beds; 

1  From  its  strange  presentation  in  a  celestial  para- 
ble of  the  story  of  a  crisis  in  its  author's  life,  this 
poem  demands  especial  comment.  In  his  essay  on  'Cir- 
cles '  —  which  sheds  light  upon  it  —  Emerson  said,  'Be- 
ware when  the  great  God  lets  loose  a  thinker  on  this 
planet.' 

The  earnest  young  men  on  the  eve  of  entering  the 
ministry  asked  him  to  speak  to  them.  After  serious 
thought  he  went  to  Cambridge  (July  15,  1838)  to  give 
them  the  good  ami  emancipating  words  which  had  been 
given  to  him  in  solitude,  well  aware,  however,  that  he 
must  shock  or  pain  the  older  clergy  who  were  present. 
The  poem,  when  read  with  the  history  of  the  Divinity 
School  Address,  and  its  consequences,  in  mind,  is  seen 
to  be  an  account  of  that  event  generalized  and  sub- 
limed,—  the  announcement  of  an  advance  in  truth,  won 
not  without  pain  and  struggle,  to  hearers  not  yet  ready, 
resulting  in  banishment  to  the  prophet;  yet  the  spoken 
word  sticks  like  a  barbed  arrow,  or  works  like  a  leaven. 
(E.  W.  EMEBSOJJ.) 


Seemed  to  the  holy  festival 
The  rash  word  boded  ill  to  all;  30 

The  balance-beam  of  Fate  was  bent; 
The  bounds  of  good  and  ill  were  rent ; 
Strong  Hades  could  not  keep  his  own, 
But  all  slid  to  confusion. 

A  sad  self-knowledge,  withering,  fell 
On  the  beauty  of  Uriel; 
In  heaven  once  eminent,  the  god 
Withdrew,  that  hour,  into  his  cloud; 
Whether  doomed  to  long  gyration 
In  the  sea  of  generation,  40 

Or  by  knowledge  grown  too  bright 
To  hit  the  nerve  of  feebler  sight. 
Straightway,  a  forgetting  wind 
Stole  over  the  celestial  kind, 
And  their  lips  the  secret  kept, 
If  in  ashes  the  fire-seed  slept. 
But  now  and  then,  truth-speaking  things 
Shamed  the  angels'  veiling  wings; 
And,  shrilling  from  the  solar  course, 
Or  from  fruit  of  chemic  force,  50 

Procession  of  a  soul  in  matter, 
Or  the  speeding  change  of  water, 
Or  out  of  the  good  of  evil  born, 
Came  Uriel's  voice  of  cherub  scorn, 
And  a  blush  tinged  the  upper  sky, 
And  the  gods  shook,  they  knew  not  why. 
1838.  1S46. 

THE    PROBLEM2 

I  LIKE  a  church;  I  like  a  cowl; 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles ; 

Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 

Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 3 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought; 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell  u 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 

*  It  is  very  grateful  to  my  feelings  to  go  into  a 
Roman  Cathedral,  yet  I  look  as  my  countrymen  do  at 
the  Roman  priesthood.  It  is  very  grateful  to  me  to 
go  into  an  English  Church  and  hear  the  liturgy  read, 
yet  nothing  would  induce  me  to  be  the  English  priest. 
(Journal,  August  28,  1838.) 

»  Compare  the  essay  on  '  Compensation  : '  '  This 
voice  of  fable  has  in  it  something  divine.  It  cnme  from 
thought  above  the  will  of  the  writer.  .  .  .  Phidias  it  is 
not,'  etc. 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON 


Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 

The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below,  — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe: 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome  l 

And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity:  2  21 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free;  3 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew;  —  4 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st   thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's 

nest 

Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast  ? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  her  annual  cell  ? 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ?  30 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone, 
And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids ; 
O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 
As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye  ; 
For  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air  ; 5  4o 

And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat.6 


1  See  Emerson's  essay  on  '  Michael    Angelo ; '   and 
the  quotation  from  his  '  Poetry  and   Imagination,'  iu    I 
note  7  in  the  next  column. 

1  Compare  Emerson's  essay  on  'Art:'  'The  Iliad 
of  Homer,  the  songs  of  David,  the  odes  of  Pindar,  the 
tragedies  of  .Eschylus,  the  Doric  temples,  the  Gothic 
cathedrals,  the  plays  of  Shakespeare,  all  and  each  were 
made  not  for  sport,  but  in  grave  earnest,  in  tears  and 
smiles  of  suffering  and  loving  men.' 

3  Compare  the  essay  on  'Art:'   'The  Gothic  cathe- 
drals were  built  when  the  builder  and  the  priest  and 
the  people  were  overpowered  by  their  faith.  Love  and 
fear  laid  every  stone.'   Compare  also  line  32  of  the 
poem:  — 

Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tileo. 

4  Compare  the  essay  on  '  Art : '  '  Our  arts  are  happy 
hits.    We  are  like  the  musician  on  the   lake,  whose 
melody  is  sweeter  than  he  knows.' 

6  It  is  in  the  soul  that  architecture  exists,  and  Santa 
Croce  and  the  Duomo  are  poor,  far-behind  imitations. 
(Journal,  Florence,  1833.) 

6  Compare  the  essay  on  '  Art : '  '  And  so  every  genu- 
ine work  of  art  has  as  much  reason  for  being  as  the 
earth  and  the  sun.  .  .  .  We  feel  in  seeing  a  noble  build- 
ing which  rhymes  well,  as  we  do  in  hearing  a  perfect 
song,  that  it  is  spiritually  organic ;  that  it  had  a  neces- 
sity in  nature  for  being ;  was  one  of  the  possible  forms 
ID  the  Divine  mind,  and  is  now  only  discovered  and  exe- 
cuted by  the  artist,  not  arbitrarily  composed  by  him.' 


These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass; 

Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned;7 

And   the   same    power    that    reared    the 

shrine 

Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within.        5o 
Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 
And    through    the    priest    the   mind    in- 
spires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 
In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind.  60 

One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise, 
The  Book  itself  before  me  lies, 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakspeare  of  divines. 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear;  7o 

And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 
1839.  1840. 


WRITTEN    IN   A   VOLUME   OF 
GOETHE8 

Six  thankful  weeks,  —  and  let  it  be 
A  meter  of  prosperity,  — 
In  my  coat  I  bore  this  book, 
And  seldom  therein  could  I  look, 
For  I  had  too  much  to  think, 
Heaven  and  earth  to  eat  and  drink. 
Is  he  hapless  who  can  spare 
In  his  plenty  things  so  rare  ? 
1840?  1883. 


7  Compare  Emerson's  essay  on  '  Poetry  and  Imagina- 
tion,' in  Letters  and  Social  Aims:  '  Michael  Angelo  is 
largely  filled  with  the  Creator  that  made  and  makes 
men.  How  much  of  the  original  craft  remains  in 
him,  and  he  a  mortal  man ....  He  knows  that  he  did 
not  make  his  thought,  —  no,  his  thought  made  him,  and 
made  the  sun  and  stars.' 

•  Emerson  wrote  to  Carlyle,  in  April,  1840 :  « You 
asked  me  if  I  read  German.  ...  I  have  contrived  to 
read  almost  every  volume  of  Goethe,  and  I  have  fifty- 
five,  but  I  have  read  nothing  else  —  but  I  have  not  now 
looked  even  into  Goethe,  for  a  long  time.' 


66 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


WOODNOTES 


WHEN  the  pine  tosses  its  cones 

To  the  song  of  its  waterfall  tones, 

Who  speeds  to  the  woodland  walks  ? 

To  birds  and  trees  who  talks  ? 

Csesar  of  his  leafy  Rome, 

There  the  poet  is  at  home. 

He  goes  to  the  river-side,  — 

Not  hook  nor  line  hath  he; 

He  stands  in  the  meadows  wide,  — 

Nor  gun  nor  scythe  to  see.  10 

Sure  some  god  his  eye  enchants: 

What  he  knows  nobody  wants. 

In  the  wood  he  travels  glad, 

Without  better  fortune  had, 

Melancholy  without  bad. 

Knowledge  this  man  prizes  best 

Seems  fantastic  to  the  rest: 

Pondering  shadows,  colors,  clouds, 

Grass-buds  and  caterpillar-shrouds, 

Boughs  on  which  the  wild  bees  settle,       20 

Tints  that  spot  the  violet's  petal, 

Why  Nature  loves  the  number  five, 

And  why  the  star-form  she  repeats: l 

Lover  of  all  things  alive, 

Wonderer  at  all  he  meets, 

Wonderer  chiefly  at  himself, 

Who  can  tell  him  what  he  is  ? 

Or  how  meet  in  human  elf 

Coming  and  past  eternities  ? 


And  such  I  knew,  a  forest  seer,  30 

A  minstrel  of  the  natural  year, 

Foreteller  of  the  vernal  ides, 

Wise  harbinger  of  spheres  and  tides, 

A  lover  true,  who  knew  by  heart 

Each  joy  the  mountain  dales  impart; 

It  seemed  that  Nature  could  not  raise 

A  plant  in  any  secret  place, 

In  quaking  bog,  on  snowy  hill, 

Beneath  the  grass  that  shades  the  rill, 

Under  the  snow,  between  the  rocks,  40 

In  damp  fields  known  to  bird  and  fox, 

But  he  would  come  in  the  very  hour 

It  opened  in  its  virgin  bower, 

1  Trifles  move  us  more  than  laws.  Why  am  I  more 
curious  to  know  the  reason  why  the  star-form  is  so  oft 
repeated  in  botany,  or  why  the  number  five  is  such  a 
favorite  with  Nature,  than  to  understand  the  circula- 
tion of  the  sap  and  the  formation  of  bud  1  (Journal, 
1835.) 


As  if  a  sunbeam  showed  the  place, 

And  tell  its  long-descended  race. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  breezes  brought  him, 

It  seemed  as  if  the  sparrows  taught  him ; 

As  if  by  secret  sight  he  knew 

Where,  in  far  fields,  the  orchis  grew. 

Many  haps  fall  in  the  field  So 

Seldom  seen  by  wishful  eyes, 

But  all  her  shows  did  Nature  yield, 

To  please  and  win  this  pilgrim  wise. 

He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods;2 

He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn; 

He  found  the  tawny  thrushes'  broods; 

And  the  shy  hawk  did  wait  for  him ; 8 

What  others  did  at  distance  hear, 

And  guessed  within  the  thicket's  gloom, 

Was  shown  to  this  philosopher,  60 

And  at  his  bidding  seemed  to  come.4 


In  unploughed  Maine  he  sought  the  lum- 
berers' gang 
Where  from  a  hundred  lakes  young  rivers 

sprang; 

He  trode  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon 
The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone ; 
Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly 

bear, 

And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 
He  saw  beneath  dim  aisles,  in  odorous  beds, 
The  slight  Linnaea  hang  its  twin-born  heads, 
And  blessed  the  monument  of  the  man  of 
flowers,  7o 

Which  breathes  his  sweet  fame  through  the 

northern  bowers. 

He  heard,  when  in  the  grove,  at  intervals, 
With  sudden  roar  the  aged  pine-tree  falls,— 
One  crash,  the  death-hymn  of  the  perfect 

tree, 
Declares  the  close  of  its  green  century. 

2  Compare  Emerson's  '  Thoreau  : '  '  His  powers  of 
observation  seemed  to  indicate  additional  senses.  He 
saw  as  with  microscope,  heard  as  with  ear-trumpet,  and 
his  memory  was  a  photographic  register  of  all  he  saw 
and  heard.  And  yet  none  knew  better  than  he  that  it  is 
not  the  fact  that  imports  but  the  impression  or  effect 
of  the  fact  on  your  mind.  Every  fact  lay  in  glory  in 
his  mind,  a  type  of  the  order  and  beauty  of  the  whole.' 

8  Compare  the  '  Thoreau '  again :  '  He  knew  how  to 
sit  immovable,  a  part  of  the  rock  he  rested  on,  until 
the  bird,  the  reptile,  the  fish,  which  had  retired  from 
him,  should  come  back  and  resume  its  habits,  —  nay, 
moved  by  curiosity,  should  come  to  him  and  watch 
him.' 

4  The  passages  about  the  forest  seer  fit  Thoreau  so 
well  that  the  general  belief  that  Mr.  Emerson  had  him 
in  mind  may  be  accepted,  but  one  member  of  the  fam- 
ily recalls  his  saying  that  a  part  of  this  picture  was 
drawn  before  he  knew  Thoreau's  gifts  and  experience* 
(E.  W.  EMERSON,  in  the  Centenary  Edition.) 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


67 


Low  lies  the  plant  to  whose  creation  went 
Sweet  influence  from  every  element; 
Whose  living  towers  the  years  conspired  to 

build, 

Whose  giddy  top  the  morning  loved  to  gild. 
Through  these  green  tents,  by  eldest  Nature 

dressed,  80 

He  roamed,  content  alike  with  man  and 

beast. 
Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at 

night; 
There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with  its 

light. 
Three  moons  his  great  heart  him  a  hermit 

made, 

So  long  he  roved  at  will  the  boundless  shade. 
The  timid  it  concerns  to  ask  their  way, 
And  fear  what  foe  in  caves  and  swamps  can 

stray, 

To  make  no  step  until  the  event  is  known, 
And  ills  to  come  as  evils  past  bemoan. 
Not  so  the   wise  ;   no   coward   watch  he 

keeps  90 

To  spy  what  danger  on  his  pathway  creeps ; 
Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home,1 
His  hearth  the  earth,  —  his  hall  the  azure 

dome; 
Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there  's 

his  road 

By  God's  own  light  illumined   and  fore- 
showed. 


T  was  one  of  the  charmed  days 

When  the  genius  of  God  doth  flow; 

The  wind  may  alter  twenty  ways, 

A  tempest  cannot  blow; 

It  may  blow  north,  it  still  is  warm;          i<x 

Or  south,  it  still  is  clear; 

Or  east,  it  smells  like  a  clover-farm; 

Or  west,  no  thunder  fear. 

The  musing  peasant,  lowly  great, 

Beside  the  forest  water  sate ; 

The  rope-like  pine-roots  crosswise  grown 

Composed  the  network  of  liis  throne; 

The  wide  lake,  edged  with  sand  and  grass, 

Was  burnished  to  a  floor  of  glass, 

Painted  with  shadows  green  and  proud    nc 

Of  the  tree  and  of  the  cloud. 

He  was  the  heart  of  all  the  scene ; 

On  him  the  sun  looked  more  serene; 

To  hill  and  cloud  his  face  was  known,  — 

It  seemed  the  likeness  of  their  own;. 

They  knew  by  secret  sympathy 

1  Cf.  the  note  on  '  Written  in  Naples,'  p.  60. 


The  public  child  of  earth  and  sky. 
'  You  ask,'  he  said,  '  what  guide 
Me  through  trackless  thickets  led, 
Through  thick-stemmed  woodlands  rough 
and  wide.  J2o 

I  found  the  water's  bed. 
The  watercourses  were  my  guide ; 
I  travelled  grateful  by  their  side, 
Or  through  their  channel  dry; 
They  led  me  through  the  thicket  damp, 
Through  brake  and  fern,  the  beavers'  camp, 
Through  beds  of  granite  cut  my  road, 
And  their  resistless  friendship  showed. 
The  falling  waters  led  me, 
The  foodful  waters  fed  me,  i3c 

And  brought  me  to  the  lowest  land, 
Unerring  to  the  ocean  sand. 
The  moss  upon  the  forest  bark 
Was  pole-star  when  the  night  was  dark; 
The  purple  berries  in  the  wood 
Supplied  me  necessary  food; 
For  Nature  ever  faithful  is 
To  such  as  trust  her  faithfulness. 
When  the  forest  shall  mislead  me, 
When  the  night  and  morning  lie,  140 

When  sea  and  land  refuse  to  feed  me, 
'T  will  be  time  enough  to  die; 
Then  will  yet  my  mother  yield 
A  pillow  in  her  greenest  field, 
Nor  the  June  flowers  scorn  to  cover 
The  clay  of  their  departed  lover.' 

1840. 

WOODNOTES2 


As  sunbeams  stream  through  liberal  space 
A  nd  nothing  jostle  or  displace, 
So  waved  the  pine-tree  through  my  thought 
And  fanned  the  dreams  it  never  brought. 

'  Whether  is  better,  the  gift  or  the  donor  ? 
Come  to  me,' 

*  The  stately  white  pine  of  New  England  was  Emer- 
son's favorite  tree.  .  .  .  This  poem  recoils  the  actual 
fact ;  nearly  every  day,  summer  or  winter,  when  at 
home,  he  went  to  listen  to  its  song.  The  pine  grove  by 
Walden,  still  standing,  though  injured  by  time  and 
fire,  was  one  of  his  most  valued  possessions.  He  ques- 
tioned whether  he  should  not  name  his  book  Forest 
Essays,  for,  he  said,  '  I  have  scarce  a  day-dream  on 
which  the  breath  of  the  pines  ha»  not  blown  and  their 
shadow  waved.'  The  great  pine  on  the  ridge  over 
Sleepy  Hollow  was  chosen  by  him  as  his  monument. 
When  a  youth,  in  Newton,  he  had  written,  '  Here  sit 
Mother  and  I  under  the  pine-trees,  still  almost  as  we 
shall  lie  by  and  by  under  them.'  —  (E.  W.  EMKESON,  in 
the  Centenary  Edition.) 


68 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Quoth  the  pine-tree, 

'  I  am  the  giver  of  honor. 

My  garden  is  the  cloven  rock, 

And  my  manure  the  snow;  10 

And  drifting  sand-heaps  feed  my  stock, 

In  summer's  scorching  glow. 

He  is  great  who  can  live  by  me : 

The  rough  and  bearded  forester 

Is  better  than  the  lord; 

God  fills  the  scrip  and  canister, 

Sin  piles  the  loaded  board. 

The  lord  is  the  peasant  that  was, 

The  peasant  the  lord  that  shall  be; 

The  lord  is  hay,  the  peasant  grass,  20 

One  dry,  and  one  the  living  tree. 

Who  liveth  by  the  ragged  pine 

Foundeth  a  heroic  line; 

Who  liveth  in  the  palace  hall 

Waneth  fast  and  spendeth  all.1 

He  goes  to  my  savage  haunts, 

With  his  chariot  and  his  care ; 

My  twilight  realm  he  disenchants, 

And  finds  his  prison  there. 

What  prizes  the  town  and  the  tower  ?  30 
Only  what  the  pine-tree  yields; 
Sinew  that  subdued  the  fields; 
The  wild-eyed  boy,  who  in  the  woods 
Chants  his  hymn  to  hills  and  floods, 
Whom  the  city's  poisoning  spleen 
Made  not  pale,  or  fat,  or  lean; 
Whom  the  rain  and  the  wind  purgeth, 
Whom  the  dawn  and  the  day-star  urgetb, 
In  whose  cheek  the  rose-leaf  blusheth, 
In  whose  feet  the  lion  rusheth  4o 

Iron  arms,  and  iron  mould, 
That  know  not  fear,  fatigue,  or  cold. 
I  give  my  rafters  to  his  boat, 
My  billets  to  his  boiler's  throat, 
And  I  will  swim  the  ancient  sea 
To  float  my  child  to  victory, 
And  grant  to  dwellers  with  the  pine 
Dominion  o'er  the  palm  and  vine. 
Who  leaves  the  pine-tree,  leaves  his  friend, 
Unnerves  his  strength,  invites  his  end.      50 
Cut  a  bough  from  my  parent  stem, 
And  dip  it  in  thy  porcelain  vase; 
A  little  while  each  russet  gem 
Will  swell  and  rise  with  wonted  grace; 
But  when  it  seeks  enlarged  supplies, 
The  orphan  of  the  forest  dies. 

1  Compare  tlie  essay  on  '  Manners : '  '  The  city 
would  have  died  out,  rotted  and  exploded,  long  ago, 
but  that  it  was  reinforced  from  the  fields.  It  is  only 
country  which  came  to  town  day  before  yesterday  that 
is  city  and  court  to-day. ' 


Whoso  walks  in  solitude 

And  inhabiteth  the  wood, 

Choosing  light,  wave,  rock  and  bird, 

Before  the  money-loving  herd,  60 

Into  that  forester  shall  pass, 

From  these  companions,  power  and  grace. 

Clean  shall  he  be,  without,  within, 

From  the  old  adhering  sin, 

All  ill  dissolving  in  the  light 

Of  his  triumphant  piercing  sight: 

Not  vain,  sour,  nor  frivolous; 

Not  mad,  athirst,  nor  garrulous; 

Grave,  chaste,  contented,  though  retired, 

And  of  all  other  men  desired.  70 

On  him  the  light  of  star  and  moon 

Shall  fall  with  purer  radiance  down; 

All  constellations  of  the  sky 

Shed  their  virtue  through  his  eye. 

Him  Nature  giveth  for  defence 

His  formidable  innocence; 

The  mountain  sap,  the  shells,  the  sea, 

All  spheres,  all  stones,  his  helpers  be; 

He  shall  meet  the  speeding  year, 

Without  wailing,  without  fear;  So 

He  shall  be  happy  in  his  love, 

Like  to  like  shall  joyful  prove; 

He  shall  be  happy  whilst  he  wooes, 

Muse-born,  a  daughter  of  the  Muse. 

But  if  with  gold  she  bind  her  hair, 

And  deck  her  breast  with  diamond, 

Take  off  thine  eyes,  thy  heart  forbear, 

Though  thou  lie  alone  on  the  ground. 

'  Heed  the  old  oracles, 

Ponder  my  spells;  go 

Song  wakes  in  my  pinnacles 

When  the  wind  swells. 

Soundeth  the  prophetic  wind, 

The  shadows  shake  on  the  rock  behind. 

And  the  countless  leaves  of  the  pine  are 

strings 
Tuned  to  the  lay  the  wood-god  sings. 

Hearken !  Hearken ! 
If  thou  wouldst  know  the  mystic  song 
Chanted  when  the  sphere  was  young. 
Aloft,  abroad,  the  paean  swells;  JCo 

O  wise  man  !  hear'st  thou  half  it  tells  ? 
O  wise  man  !  hear'st  thou  the  least  part  ? 
'T  is  the  chronicle  of  art. 
To  the  open  ear  it  sings 
Sweet  the  genesis  of  things, 
Of  tendency  through  endless  ages,2 

1  These  lines  are  a  sort  of  poetic  '  Doctrine  of  Evo- 
lution.' Compare  the  1849  motto  of  Emerson's  'Na- 
ture '  (p.  87).  It  is  interesting  to  remember  Tyndall's 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


69 


Of  star-dust,  and  star-pilgrimages, 

Of  rounded  worlds,  of  space  and  time, 

Of  the  old  flood's  subsiding  slime, 

Of  chemic  matter,  force  and  form,  no 

Of  poles  and  powers,  cold,  wet,  and  warm: 

The  rushing  metamorphosis 

Dissolving  all  that  fixture  is, 

Melts  things  that  be  to  things  that  seem, 

And  solid  nature  to  a  dream. 

O,  listen  to  the  undersong, 

The  ever  old,  the  ever  young; 

And,  far  within  those  cadent  pauses, 

The  chorus  of  the  ancient  Causes  ! 

Delights  the  dreadful  Destiny  120 

To  fling  his  voice  into  the  tree, 

And  shock  thy  weak  ear  with  a  note 

Breathed  from  the  everlasting  throat. 

in  music  he  repeats  the  pang 

Whence  the  fair  flock  of  Nature  sprang. 

O  mortal !  thy  ears  are  stones; 

These  echoes  are  laden  with  tones 

Which  only  the  pure  can  hear; 

Thou  canst  not  catch  what  they  recite 

Of  Fate  and  Will,  of  Want  and  Right,    130 

Of  man  to  come,  of  human  life, 

Of  Death  and  Fortune,  Growth  and  Strife.' 

Once  again  the  pine-tree  sung  :  — 
'  Speak  not  thy  speech  my  boughs  among  : 
Put  off  thy  years,  wash  in  the  breeze  ; 
My  hours  are  peaceful  centuries. 
Talk  no  more  with  feeble  tongue; 
No  more  the  fool  of  space  and  time, 
Come  weave  with  mine  a  nobler  rhyme. 
Only  thy  Americans  140 

Can  read  thy  line,  can  meet  thy  glance, 
But  the  runes  that  I  rehearse 
Understands  the  universe; 
The  least  breath  my  boughs  which  tossed 
Brings  again  the  Pentecost; 
To  every  soul  resounding  clear 
In  a  voice  of  solemn  cheer,  — 
"  Am  I  not  thine  ?  Are  not  these  thine  ?  " 
And  they  reply,  "  Forever  mine  !  " 
My  branches  speak  Italian,  150 

English,  German,  Basque,  Castilian, 
Mountain  speech  to  Highlanders, 
Ocean  tongues  to  islanders, 
To  Fin  and  Lap  and  swart  Malay, 
To  each  his  bosom-secret  say. 

'  Come  learn  with  me  the  fatal  song 
Which  knits  the  world  in  music  strong, 

saying :  '  Whatever  I  have    done  the  world  owes   to 
Etuersou.' 


Come  lift  thine  eyes  to  lofty  rhymes, 

Of  things  with  things,  of  times  with  times, 

Primal  chimes  of  sun  and  shade,  160 

Of  sound  and  echo,  man  and  maid, 

The  land  reflected  in  the  flood, 

Body  with  shadow  still  pursued. 

For  Nature  beats  in  perfect  tune, 

And  rounds  with  rhyme  her  every  rune, 

Whether  she  work  in  land  or  sea, 

Or  hide  underground  her  alchemy. 

Thou  canst  not  wave  thy  staff  in  air, 

Or  dip  thy  paddle  in  the  lake, 

But  it  carves  the  bow  of  beauty  there,     170 

And  the  ripples  in  rhymes  the  oar  forsake.1 

The  wood  is  wiser  far  than  thou; 

The  wood  and  wave  each  other  know 

Not  unrelated,  unaffied, 

But  to  each  thought  and  thiag  allied, 

Is  perfect  Nature's  every  part, 

Rooted  in  the  mighty  Heart. 

But  thou,  poor  child  !  unbound,  unrhymed, 

Whence  earnest  thou,  misplaced,  mistimed, 

Whence,  O  thou  orphan  and  defrauded  ?  180 

Is  thy  land  peeled,  thy  realm  marauded  ? 

Who  thee  divorced,  deceived  and  left  ? 

Thee  of  thy  faith  who  hath  bereft, 

And  torn  the  ensigns  from  thy  brow, 

And  sunk  the  immortal  eye  so  low  ? 

Thy  cheek  too  white,  thy  form  too  slender, 

Thy  gait  too  slow,  thy  habits  tender 

For  royal  man;  —  they  thee  confess 

An  exile  from  the  wilderness,  — 

The  hills  where  health  with  health  agrees. 

And  the  wise  soul  expels  disease.  191 

Hark  !  in  thy  ear  I  will  tell  the  sign 

By  which  thy  hurt  thou  may'st  divine. 

When  thou  shalt  climb  the  mountain  cliff, 

Or  see  the  wide  shore  from  thy  skiff, 

To  thee  the  horizon  shall  express 

But  emptiness  on  emptiness; 

There  lives  no  man  of  Nature's  worth 

In  the  circle  of  the  earth; 

And  to  thine  eye  the  vast  skies  fall,         2<jo 

Dire  and  satirical, 

1  '  As  for  beauty,  I  need  not  look  beyond  an  oar's 
length  for  iny  fill  of  it.'  I  do  not  know 'whether  he 
[William  Ellery  Channing]  used  the  expression  with 
design  or  no,  but  my  eye  rested  on  the  charming  play 
of  light  on  the  water  which  he  was  striking  with  his 
paddle.  I  fancied  I  had  never  seen  such  color,  such 
transparency,  such  eddies  ;  it  was  the  hue  of  Rhine 
wines,  it  was  jasper  and  verd-antique,  topaz  and  chalce- 
dony, it  was  gold  and  green  and  chestnut  and  hazel  in 
bewitching  succession  and  relief,  without  cloud  or  con- 
fusion. (Journal,  1846.) 

Compare  also  the  paragraph  in  Emerson's  '  Nature ' 
beginning :  '  It  seems  as  if  the  day  was  not  wholly  pro- 
fane in  which  we  have  given  heed  to  some  natural 
object.' 


7° 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


On  clucking  hens  and  prating  fools, 
On  thieves,  on  drudges  and  on  dolls. 
And  thou  shalt  say  to  the  Most  High, 
"  Godhead  !  all  this  astronomy, 
And  fate  and  practice  and  invention, 
Strong  art  and  beautiful  pretension, 
This  radiant  pomp  of  sun  and  star, 
Throes  that  were,  and  worlds  that  are, 
Behold!  were  in  vain  and  in  vain; —       210 
It  cannot  be,  —  I  will  look  again.1 
Surely  now  will  the  curtain  rise, 
And  earth's  fit  tenant  me  surprise;  — 
But  the  curtain  doth  not  rise, 
And  Nature  has  miscarried  wholly 
Into  failure,  into  folly." 

'  Alas!  thine  is  the  bankruptcy, 

Blessed  Nature  so  to  see. 

Come,  lay  thee  in  my  soothing  shade, 

Aul  heal  the  hurts  which  sin  has  made.    220 

I  see  thee  in  the  crowd  alone; 

I  will  be  thy  companion. 

Quit  thy  friends  as  the  dead  in  doom, 

And  build  to  them  a  final  tomb ; 

Let  the  starred  shade  that  nightly  falls 

Still  celebrate  their  funerals, 

And  the  bell  of  beetle  and  of  bee 

Knell  their  melodious  memory. 

Behind  thee  leave  thy  merchandise, 

Thy  churches  and  thy  charities;  230 

And  leave  thy  peacock  wit  behind; 

Enough  for  thee  the  primal  mind 

That  flows  in  streams,  that  breathes  in  wind : 

Leave  all  thy  pedant  lore  apart; 

God  hid  the  whole  world  in  thy  heart. 

Love  shims  the  sage,  the  child  it  crowns, 

Gives  all  to  them  who  all  renounce. 

The  rain  comes  when  the  wind  calls; 

The  river  knows  the  way  to  the  sea; 

Without  a  pilot  it  runs  and  falls,  240 

Blessing  all  lands  with  its  charity; 

The  sea  tosses  and  foams  to  find 

Its  way  up  to  the  cloud  and  wind; 

The  shadow  sits  close  to  the  flying  ball; 

The  date  fails  not  on  the  palm-tree  tall; 

And  thou,  —  go  burn  thy  wormy  pages,  — 

Shalt  outsee  seers,  and  outwit  sages. 

Oft  didst  thou  thread  the  woods  in  vain 

To  find  what  bird  had  piped  the  strain:  — 

1  What  has  the  imagination  created  to  compare  with 
the  science  of  Astronomy  ?  What  is  there  in  Paradise 
Lost  to  elevate  and  astonish  like  Herschel  or  Somer- 
ville  ?  The  contrast  between  the  magnitude  and  dura- 
tion of  the  things,  and  the  animalcule  observer !  .  .  . 
I  hope  the  time  will  come  when  there  will  be  a  tele- 
scope in  every  street.  (Journal,  May,  1832.) 


Seek  not,  and  the  little  eremite  250 

Flies  gayly  forth  and  sings  in  sight. 

'  Hearken  once  more  ! 

I  will  tell  thee  the  mundane  lore. 

Older  am  I  than  thy  numbers  wot, 

Change  I  may,  but  I  pass  not. 

Hitherto  all  things  fast  abide, 

And  anchored  in  the  tempest  ride. 

Trenchant  time  behoves  to  hurry 

All  to  yean  and  all  to  bury: 

All  the  forms  are  fugitive,  26o 

But  the  substances  survive. 

Ever  fresh  the  broad  creation, 

A  divine  improvisation, 

From  the  heart  of  God  proceeds, 

A  single  will,  a  million  deeds. 

Once  slept  the  world  an  egg  of  stone, 

And  pulse,  and  sound,  and  light  was  none; 

And  God  said,  "  Throb  ! "  and  there  was 

motion 

And  the  vast  mass  became  vast  ocean. 
Onward  and  on,  the  eternal  Pan,  270 

Who  layeth  the  world's  incessant  plan, 
Halteth  never  in  one  shape, 
But  forever  doth  escape, 
Like  wave  or  flame,  into  new  forms 
Of  gem,  and  air,  of  plants,  and  worms. 
I,  that  to-day  am  a  pine, 
Yesterday  was  a  bundle  of  grass. 
He  is  free  and  libertine, 
Pouring  of  his  power  the  wine 
To  every  age,  to  every  race;  280 

Unto  every  race  and  age 
He  emptieth  the  beverage; 
Unto  each,  and  unto  all, 
Maker  and  original. 
The  world  is  the  ring  of  his  spells, 
And  the  play  of  his  miracles. 
As  he  giveth  to  all  to  drink, 
Thus  or  thus  they  are  and  think. 
With  one  drop  sheds  form  and  feature; 
With  the  next  a  special  nature;  290 

The  third  adds  heat's  indulgent  spark; 
The  fourth  gives  light  which  eats  the  dark; 
Into  the  fifth  himself  he  flings, 
And  conscious  Law  is  King  of  kings. 
As  the  bee  through  the  garden  ranges, 
From  world  to  world  the  godhead  changes; 
As  the  sheep  go  feeding  in  the  waste, 
From  form  to  form  He  maketh  haste ; 
This  vault  which  glows  immense  with  light 
Is  the  inn  where  he  lodges  for  a  night.    300 
What  recks  siich  Traveller  if  the  bowers 
Which  bloom  and  fade  like  meadow  flowers 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


A  bunch  of  fragrant  lilies  be, 

Or  the  stars  of  eternity  ? 

Alike  to  him  the  better,  the  worse,  — 

The  glowing  angel,  the  outcast  corse. 

Thou  metest  him  by  centuries, 

And  lo  !  he  passes  like  the  breeze; 

Thou  seek'st  in  globe  and  galaxy, 

He  hides  in  pure  transparency;  310 

Thou  askest  in  fountains  and  in  fires, 

He  is  the  essence  that  inquires. 

He  is  the  axis  of  the  star; 

He  is  the  sparkle  of  the  spar; 

He  is  the  heart  of  every  creature ; 

He  is  the  meaning  of  each  feature; 

And  his  mind  is  the  sky, 

Than  all  it  holds  more  deep,  more  high.' 


1841. 


THE    SPHINX 


THE  Sphinx  is  drowsy, 

Her  wings  are  furled: 
Her  ear  is  heavy, 

She  broods  on  the  world. 

*  Who  '11  tell  me  my  secret, 

The  ages  have  kept  ?  — 
I  awaited  the  seer 

While  they  slumbered  and  slept  :  — 

« The  fate  of  the  man-child, 

The  meaning  of  man;  10 

Known  fruit  of  the  unknown; 

Daedalian  plan; 
Out  of  sleeping  a  waking, 

Out  of  waking  a  sleep; 
Life  death  overtaking; 

Deep  underneath  deep  ? 

*  Erect  as  a  sunbeam, 

Upspringeth  the  palm; 
The  elephant  browses, 

Undaunted  and  calm;  20 

In  beautiful  motion 

The  thrush  plies  his  wings; 
Kind  leaves  of  his  covert, 

Your  silence  he  sings. 

»  Mr.  Emerson  wrote  in  his  note-book  in  1859  :  '  I 
have  often  been  asked  the  meaning  of  the  "  Sphinx."  It 
in  this:  The  perception  of  identity  unites  all  things 
and  explains  one  by  another,  and  the  most  rare  and 
strange  is  equally  facile  as  the  most  common.  But  if 
the  mind  live  only  in  particulars,  and  see  only  differ- 
ences (wanting  the  power  to  see  the  whole  —  all  in 
each),  then  the  world  addresses  to  this  mind  a  question 
it  cannot  answer,  and  each  new  fact  tears  it  in  pieces 
and  it  is  vanquished  by  the  distracting  variety.'  (Cen- 
tenary Edition.) 


'  The  waves,  unashamed, 

In  difference  sweet, 
Play  glad  with  the  breezes, 

Old  playfellows  meet; 
The  journeying  atoms, 

Primordial  wholes,  30 

Firmly  draw,  firmly  drive, 

By  their  animate  poles. 

'  Sea,  earth,  air,  sound,  silence, 

Plant,  quadruped,  bird, 
By  one  music  enchanted, 

One  deity  stirred,  — 
Each  the  other  adorning, 

Accompany  still; 
Night  veileth  the  morning, 

The  vapor  the  hill.  40 

« The  babe  by  its  mother 

Lies  bathed  in  joy ; 
Glide  its  hours  uncounted,  — 

The  sun  is  its  toy; 
Shines  the  peace  of  all  being, 

Without  cloud,  in  its  eyes; 
And  the  sum  of  the  world 

In  soft  miniature  lies. 

'  But  man  crouches  and  blushes, 

Absconds  and  conceals;  50 

He  creepeth  and  peepeth, 

He  palters  and  steals; 
Infirm,  melancholy, 

Jealous  glancing  around, 
An  oaf,  an  accomplice, 

He  poisons  the  ground.2 

'  Out  spoke  the  great  mother, 

Beholding  his  fear  ;  — 
At  the  sound  of  her  accents 

Cold  shuddered  the  sphere  :  —       60 
"  Who  has  drugged  my  boy's  cup  ? 

Who  has  mixed  my  boy's  bread  ? 
Who,  with  sadness  and  madness, 

Has  turned  my  child's  head  ?  "  ' 

I  heard  a  poet  answer 

Aloud  and  cheerfully, 
'  Say  on,  sweet  Sphinx  !  thy  dirges 

2  Compare  Emerson's  essay  on  'Self-Reliance:' 
'  Let  a  man  then  know  his  worth,  and  keep  thing! 
under  his  feet.  Let  him  not  peep  or  steal,  or  skulk  up 
and  down  with  the  air  of  a  charity-boy,  a  bastard,  or  an 
interloper  in  the  world  which  exists  for  him.  .  .  Man 
is  timid  and  apologetic;  he  is  no  longer  upright;  he 
dares  not  say  "  I  think,"  "I  am,"  but  quotes  some 
saint  or  sage.  He  is  ashamed  before  the  blade  of  grass 
or  the  blowing  rose.' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Are  pleasant  songs  to  me. 
Deep  love  lieth  under 

These  pictures  of  time;  7o 

They  fade  in  the  light  of 

Their  meaning  sublime. 

'  The  fiend  that  man  harries 

Is  love  of  the  Best; 
Yawns  the  pit  of  the  Dragon, 

Lit  by  rays  from  the  Blest. 
The  Lethe  of  Nature 

Can't  trance  him  again, 
Whose  soul  sees  the  perfect, 

Which  his  eyes  seek  in  vain.  80 

'  To  vision  prof ounder, 

Man's  spirit  must  dive; 
His  aye-rolling  orb 

At  no  goal  will  arrive; 
The  heavens  that  now  draw  him 

With  sweetness  untold, 
Once  found,  —  for  new  heavens 

He  spurneth  the  old.1 

'  Pride  ruined  the  angels, 

Their  shame  them  restores;  9o 

Lurks  the  joy  that  is  sweetest 

In  stings  of  remorse. 
Have  I  a  lover 

Who  is  noble  and  free?  — 
I  would  he  were  nobler 

Than  to  love  me. 

*  Eterne  alternation 

Now  follows,  now  flies; 
And  under  pain,  pleasure, — 

Under  pleasure,  pain  lies.  100 

Love  works  at  the  centre, 

Heart-heaving  alway; 
Forth  speed  the  strong  pulses 

To  the  borders  of  day. 

*  Dull  Sphinx,  Jove  keep  thy  five  wits ; 

Thy  sight  is  growing  blear; 
Rue,  myrrh  and  cummin  for  the  Sphinx, 

Her  muddy  eyes  to  clear  ! ' 
The  old  Sphinx  bit  her  thick  lip,  — 

Said, 'Who  taught  thee  me  to  name?  no 
I  am  thy  spirit,  yoke-fellow; 

Of  thine  eye  I  am  eyebeam. 

1  Compare  Emerson's  address  on  '  The  American 
Scholar,'  the  paragraph  beginning :  '  First  one,  then 
another,  we  drain  all  cisterna,  and  waxing  greater  by  all 
these  supplies,  we  crave  a  better  and  more  abundant 

fOO-1.' 


'Thou  art  the  unanswered  question; 

Couldst  see  thy  proper  eye, 
Alway  it  asketh,  asketh; 

And  each  answer  is  a  lie. 
So  take  thy  quest  through  nature, 

It  through  thousand  natures  ply; 
Ask  on,  thou  clothed  eternity; 

Time  is  the  false  reply.' 

Uprose  the  merry  Sphinx, 

And  crouched  no  more  in  stone ; 
She  melted  into  purple  cloud, 

She  silvered  in  the  moon; 
She  spired  into  a  yellow  flame; 

She  flowered  in  blossoms  red; 
She  flowed  into  a  foaming  wave: 

She  stood  Monaduoc's  head. 

Thorough  a  thousand  voices 
Spoke  the  universal  dame; 

'  Who  telleth  one  of  my  meanings 
Is  master  of  all  1  am.' 


1841. 


THE    SNOW-STORM 


ANNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the    snow,  and,   driving   o'er   the 

fields, 

Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  Driver,  and  the 

heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's 

end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's 

feet 

Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  house- 
mates sit 

Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north  wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected 

roof 
Round  every  wiudward  stake,  or  tree,  or 

door. 

Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  nought  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths ; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to 

wall, 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


73 


Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs;  and  at  the  gate 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the 

world 

Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished 

Art 

To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built   in   an   age,   the  mad  wind's  night- 
work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

1841. 

FABLE 

THE  mountain  and  the  squirrel 

Had  a  quarrel, 

And  the  former  called  the   latter   '  Little 

Prig;' 
Bun  replied, 

'  You  are  doubtless  very  big; 
But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 
Must  be  taken  in  together, 
To  make  up  a  year 
And  a  sphere. 
And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 
To  occupy  my  place. 
If  I  'in  not  so  large  as  you, 
You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 
And  not  half  so  spry. 
I  '11  not  deny  you  make 
A  very  pretty  squirrel  track; 
Talents  differ';  all  is  well  and  wisely  put; 
If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 
Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut.' 
1840?  1846. 


THE    INFORMING   SPIRIT* 

I 

THERE  is  no  great  and  no  small 
To  the  Soul  that  maketh  all: 
And  where  it  cometh,  all  things  are; 
And  it  cometh  everywhere. 


I  am  owner  of  the  sphere, 
Of  the  seven  stars  and  the  solar  year, 
Of  Caesar's  hand,  and  Plato's  brain, 
Of  Lord  Christ's  heart,  and  Shakspeare's 
strain. 

1841. 

•  First  printed,  without  title,  as  motto  to  the  essay 
on  '  History.' 


FRIENDSHIP2 

A  RUDDY  drop  of  manly  blood 

The  surging  sea  outweighs, 

The  world  uncertain  comes  and  goes; 

The  lover  rooted  stays. 

I  fancied  he  was  fled,  — 

And,  after  many  a  year, 

Glowed  unexhausted  kindliness, 

Like  daily  sunrise  there. 

My  careful  heart  was  free  again, 

O  friend,  my  bosom  said, 

Through  thee  alone  the  sky  is  arched, 

Through  thee  the  rose  is  red; 

All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  form, 

And  look  beyond  the  earth, 

The  mill-round  of  our  fate  appears 

A  sun-path  in  thy  worth. 

Me  too  thy  nobleness  has  taught 

To  master  my  despair; 

The  fountains  of  my  hidden  life 

Are  through  thy  friendship  fair. 

1841. 


FORBEARANCE 

HAST  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a 
gun? 

Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on  its 
stalk? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse  ? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of 
trust? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior, 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech  re- 
frained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay  ? 

O,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to  be 
thine! 


HOLIDAYS 

FROM  fall  to  spring,  the  russet  acorn, 
Fruit  beloved  of  maid  and  boy,i 

Lent  itself  beneath  the  forest, 
To  be  the  children's  toy. 

Pluck  it  now  !  In  vain,  —  tho\i  canst  not; 

Its  root  has  pierced  yon  shady  mound ; 
Toy  no  longer —  it  has  duties; 

It  is  anchored  in  the  ground. 

8  First  printed  as  motto  to  the  essay  on   '  Friend 
ship.' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Year  by  year  the  rose-lipped  maiden, 
Playfellow  of  young  and  old, 

Was  frolic  sunshine,  dear  to  all  men, 
More  dear  to  one  than  mines  of  gold. 

Whither  went  the  lovely  hoyden  ? 

Disappeared  in  blessed  wife; 
Servant  to  a  wooden  cradle, 

Living  in  a  baby's  life. 

Still  thou  playest ;  —  short  vacation 
Fate  grants  each  to  stand  aside; 

Now  must  thou  be  man  and  artist,  — 
'T  is  the  turning  of  the  tide. 

1842. 


SAADI1 

TREES  in  groves, 
Kine  in  droves, 

In  ocean  sport  the  scaly  herds, 
Wedge-like  cleave  the  air  the  birds, 
To  northern  lakes  fly  wind-borne  ducks, 
Browse  the  mountain  sheep  in  flocks, 
Men  consort  in  camp  and  town, 
But  the  poet  dwells  alone. 

God,  who  gave  to  him  the  lyre, 
Of  all  mortals  the  desire,  10 

For  all  breathing  men's  behoof, 
Straitly  charged  him,  'Sit  aloof; ' 
Annexed  a  warning,  poets  say, 
To  the  bright  premium,  — 
Ever,  when  twain  together  play, 
Shall  the  Harp  be  dumb. 

Many  may  come, 

But  one  shall  sing; 

Two  touch  the  string, 

The  harp  is  dumb.  ao 

Though  there  come  a  million, 

Wise  Saadi  dwells  alone. 

Yet  Saadi  loved  the  race  of  men,  — 
No  churl,  immured  in  cave  or  den; 
In  bower  and  hall 
He  wants  them  all, 
Nor  can  dispense 

1  It  does  not  appear  in  what  year  Mr.  Emerson  first 
read  in  translation  the  poems  of  Saadi,  but  although  in 
later  years  he  seems  to  have  been  strangely  stimulated 
by  Haflz,  whom  he  names '  the  prince  of  Persian  poets,' 
yet  Saadi  was  his  first  love ;  indeed,  he  adopted  his 
name,  in  its  various  modifications,  for  the  ideal  poet, 
and  under  it  describes  his  own  longings  and  his  most 
intimate  experiences.  (E.  W.  EMERSON.) 


With  Persia  for  his  audience; 

They  must  give  ear, 

Grow  red  with  joy  and  white  with  fear; 

But  he  has  no  companion;  3i 

Come  ten,  or  come  a  million, 

Good  Saadi  dwells  alone. 

Be  thou  ware  where  Saadi  dwells; 

Wisdom  of  the  gods  is  he,  — 

Entertain  it  reverently. 

Gladly  round  that  golden  lamp 

Sylvan  deities  encamp, 

And  simple  maids  and  noble  youth 

Are  welcome  to  the  man  of  truth.          40 

Most  welcome  they  who  need  him  most, 

They  feed  the  spring  which  they  exhaust; 

For  greater  need 

Draws  better  deed: 

But,  critic,  spare  thy  vanity, 

Nor  show  thy  pompous  parts, 

To  vex  with  odious  subtlety 

The  cheerer  of  men's  hearts. 

Sad-eyed  Fakirs  swiftly  say 

Endless  dirges  to  decay,  50 

Never  in  the  blaze  of  light 

Lose  the  shudder  of  midnight; 

Pale  at  overflowing  noon 

Hear  wolves  barking  at  the  moon; 

In  the  bower  of  dalliance  sweet 

Hear  the  far  Avenger's  feet: 

And  shake  before  those  awful  Powers, 

Who  in  their  pride  forgive  not  ours. 

Thus  the  sad-eyed  Fakirs  preach: 

'  Bard,  when  thee  would  Allah  teach,    60 

And  lift  thee  to  his  holy  mount, 

He  sends  thee  from  his  bitter  fount 

Wormwood,  —  saying,  "Go  thy  ways; 

Drink  not  the  Malaga  of  praise, 

But  do  the  deed  thy  fellows  hate, 

And  compromise  thy  peaceful  state  ; 

Smite  the  white  breasts  which  thee  fed, 

Stuff  sharp  thorns  beneath  the  head 

Of  them  thou  shouldst  have  comforted; 

For  out  of  woe  and  out  of  crime  70 

Draws  the  heart  a  lore  sublime."  ' 

And  yet  it  seemeth  not  to  me 

That  the  high  gods  love  tragedy; 

For  Saadi  sat  in  the  sun, 

And  thanks  was  his  contrition; 

For  haircloth  and  for  bloody  whips, 

Had  active  hands  and  smiling  lips; 

And  yet  his  runes  he  rightly  read, 

And  to  his  folk  his  message  sped. 

Sunshine  in  his  heart  transferred  So 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


75 


Lighted  each  transparent  word, 
And  well  could  honoring  Persia  learn 
What  Saadi  wished  to  say; 
For  Saadi's  nightly  stars  did  burn 
Brighter  than  Jami's  day. 

Whispered  the  Muse  in  Saadi's  cot: 

'  O  gentle  Saadi,  listen  not, 

Tempted  by  thy  praise  of  wit, 

Or  by  thirst  and  appetite 

For  the  talents  not  thine  own,  90 

To  sons  of  contradiction.     . 

Never,  son  of  eastern  morning, 

Follow  falsehood,  follow  scorning. 

Denounce  who  will,  who  will  deny, 

And  pile  the  hills  to  scale  the  sky; 

Let  theist,  atheist,  pantheist, 

Define  and  wrangle  how  they  list, 

Fierce  conserver,  fierce  destroyer,  — 

But  thou,  joy-giver  and  enjoyer, 

Unknowing  war,  unknowing  crime,  100 

Gentle  Saadi,  mind  thy  rhyme; 

Heed  not  what  the  brawlers  say. 

Heed  thou  only  Saadi's  lay.1 

*  Let  the  great  world  bustle  on 

With  war  and  trade,  with  camp  and  town; 

A  thousand  men  shall  dig  and  eat; 

At  forge  and  furnace  thousands  sweat; 

And  thousands  sail  the  purple  sea, 

And  give  or  take  the  stroke  of  war, 

Or  crowd  the  market  and  bazaar;  no 

Oft  shall  war  end,  and  peace  return, 

And  cities  rise  where  cities  burn, 

Ere  one  man  my  hill  shall  climb, 

Who  can  turn  the  golden  rhyme. 

Let  them  manage  how  they  may, 

Heed  thou  only  Saadi's  lay. 

Seek  the  living  among  the  dead,  — 

Man  in  man  is  imprisoned; 

Barefooted  Dervish  is  not  poor, 

If  fate  unlock  his  bosom's  door,  I2o 

So  that  what  his  eye  hath  seen 

His  tongue  can  paint  as  bright,  as  keen ; 

And  what  his  tender  heart  hath  felt 


1  Compare  the  essay  on  '  Experience ' :  'So  many 
things  are  unsettled  .  .  .  the  debate  goes  forward  .  .  . 
much  is  to  say  on  both  sides  .  .  .  Right  to  hold  land, 
right  of  property,  is  disputed  .  .  .  Dig  away  in  your 
garden,  and  spend  your  earnings  as  a  waif  or  a  god- 
send, to  all  serene  and  beautiful  purposes.  Life  itself 
is  a  bubble  and  a  scepticism  and  a  sleep  within  a 
sleep.  Grant  it,  and  as  much  more  as  they  will,  —  but 
thou,  God's  darling,  heed  thy  private  dream  ;  thou 
wilt  not  be  missed  in  the  scorning  and  scepticism ; 
there  are  enough  of  them ;  stay  thou  in  thy  closet  and 
toil 


With  equal  fire  thy  heart  shalt  melt. 

For,  whom  the  Muses  smile  upon, 

And  touch  with  soft  persuasion, 

His  words  like  a  storm-wind  can  bring 

Terror  and  beauty  on  their  wing; 

In  his  every  syllable 

Lurketh  Nature  veritable;  130 

And  though  he  speak  in  midnight  dark,  — 

In  heaven  no  star,  on  earth  no  spark,  — 

Yet  before  the  listener's  eye 

Swims  the  world  in  ecstasy, 

The  forest  waves,  the  morning  breaks, 

The  pastures  sleep,  ripple  the  lakes, 

Leaves  twinkle,  flowers  like  persons  be, 

And  life  pulsates  in  rock  or  tree. 

Saadi,  so  far  thy  words  shall  reach : 

Suns  rise  and  set  in  Saadi's  speech  1 '       140 

And  thus  to  Saadi  said  the  Muse: 

'  Eat  thou  the  bread  which  men  refuse ; 

Flee  from  the  goods  which  from  thee  flee; 

Seek  nothing,  —  Fortune  seeketh  thee. 

Nor  mount,  nor  dive ;  all  good  things  keep 

The  midway  of  the  eternal  deep. 

Wish  not  to  fill  the  isles  with  eyes 

To  fetch  the  birds  of  paradise: 

On  thine  orchard's  edge  belong 

All  the  brags  of  plume  and  song;  150 

Wise  Ali's  sunbright  sayings  pass 

For  proverbs  in  the  market-place: 

Through  mountains  bored  by  regal  art, 

Toil  whistles  as  he  drives  his  cart. 

Nor  scour  the  seas,  nor  sift  mankind, 

A  poet  or  a  friend  to  find: 

Be4iold,  he  watches  at  the  door  ! 

Behold  his  shadow  on  the  floor  ! 

Open  innumerable  doors 

The  heaven  where  unveiled  Allah  pours  160 

The  flood  of  truth,  the  flood  of  good, 

The  Seraph's  and  the  Cherub's  food. 

Those  doors  are  men:  the  Pariah  hind 

Admits  thee  to  the  perfect  Mind. 

Seek  not  beyond  thy  cottage  wall 

Redeemers  that  can  yield  thee  all: 

While  thou  sittest  at  thy  door 

On  the  desert's  yellow  floor,  » 

Listening  to  the  gray-haired  crones, 

Foolish  gossips,  ancient  drones,  iyc 

Saadi,  see  !  they  rise  in  stature 

To  the  height  of  mighty  Nature, 

And  the  secret  stands  revealed 

Fraudulent  Time  in  vain  concealed,  — 

That  blessed  gods  in  servile  masks 

Plied  for  thee  thy  household  tasks.' 

18421 


76 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


ODE   TO   BEAUTY 

WHO  gave  thee,  O  Beauty, 

The  keys  of  this  breast,  — 

Too  credulous  lover 

Of  blest  and  unblest  ? 

Say,  when  in  lapsed  ages 

Thee  knew  I  of  old  ? 

Or  what  was  the  service 

For  which  I  was  sold  ? 

When  first  my  eyes  saw  thee, 

I  found  me  thy  thrall,  10 

By  magical  drawings, 

Sweet  tyrant  of  all  ! 

I  drank  at  thy  fountain 

False  waters  of  thirst; 

Thou  intimate  stranger, 

Thou  latest  and  first ! 

Thy  dangerous  glances 

Make  women  of  men; 

New-born,  we  are  melting 

Into  nature  again.  20 

Lavish,  lavish  promisor, 

Nigh  persuading  gods  to  err  ! 

Guest  of  million  painted  forms, 

Which  in  turn  thy  glory  warms  ! 

The  frailest  leaf,  the  mossy  bark, 

The  acorn's  cup,  the  raindrop's  arc, 

The  swinging  spider's  silver  line, 

The  ruby  of  the  drop  of  wine, 

The  shining  pebble  of  the  pond, 

Thou  inscribest  with  a  bond,  30 

In  thy  momentary  play, 

Would  bankrupt  nature  to  repay. 

Ah,  what  avails  it 

To  hide  or  to  shun 

Whom  the  Infinite  One 

Hath  granted  his  throne  ? 

The  heaven  high  over 

Is  the  deep's  lover; 

The  sun  and  sea, 

Informed  by  thee,  4o 

Before  me  run 

And  draw  me  on, 

Yet  fly  me  still, 

As  Fate  refuses 

To  me  the  heart  Fate  for  me  chooses. 

Is  it  that  my  opulent  soul 

Was  mingled  from  the  generous  whole; 

Sea-valleys  and  the  deep  of  skies 

Furnished  several  supplies; 

And  the  sands  whereof  I  'm  made         5° 


Draw  me  to  them,  self-betrayed  ? 

I  turn  the  proud  portfolio 

Which  holds  the  grand  designs 

Of  Salvator,  of  Guercino, 

And  Piranesi's  lines. 

I  hear  the  lofty  pseans 

Of  the  masters  of  the  shell, 

Who  heard  the  starry  music 

And  recount  the  numbers  well; 

Olympian  bards  who  sung  60 

Divine  Ideas  below, 

Which  always  find  us  young 

And  always  keep  us  so. 

Oft,  in  streets  or  humblest  places, 

I  detect  far-wandered  graces, 

Which,  from  Eden  wide  astray, 

In  lowly  homes  have  lost  their  way. 

Thee  gliding  through  the  sea  of  form,1 

Like  the  lightning  through  the  storm, 

Somewhat  not  to  be  possessed,  70 

Somewhat  not  to  be  caressed, 

No  feet  so  fleet  could  ever  find, 

No  perfect  form  could  ever  bind. 

Thou  eternal  fugitive, 

Hovering  over  all  that  live, 

Quick  and  skilful  to  inspire 

Sweet,  extravagant  desire, 

Starry  space  and  lily-bell 

Filling  with  thy  roseate  smell, 

Wilt  not  give  the  lips  to  taste  gt 

Of  the  nectar  which  thou  hast. 

All  that 's  good  and  great  with  thee 
Works  in  close  conspiracy; 
Thou  hast  bribed  the  dark  and  lonely 
To  report  thy  features  only, 
And  the  cold  and  purple  morning 
Itself  with  thoughts  of  thee  adorning; 
The  leafy  dell,  the  city  mart, 
Equal  trophies  of  thine  art; 
E'en  the  flowing  azure  air  9* 

Thoii  hast  touched  for  my  despair; 
And,  if  I  languish  into  dreams, 
Again  I  meet  the  ardent  beams. 
Queen  of  things  !    I  dare  not  die 
In  Being's  deeps  past  ear  and  eye; 
Lest  there  I  find  the  same  deceiver 
And  be  the  sport  of  Fate  forever. 
Dread  Power,  but  dear.!  if  God  thou  be, 
Unmake  me  quite, or  give  thyself  tome! 

1843. 

1  Compare  Emerson's  '  Nature  : '  '  Nature  is  a  sea  of 
forms.  .  .  .  What  is  common  to  them  all,  —  that  per- 
fectnesa  and  harmony,  —  is  Beauty.' 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


77 


NATURE i 

THE  rounded  world  is  fair  to  see, 

Nine  times  folded  in  mystery: 

Though  baffled  seers  cannot  impart 

The  secret  of  its  laboring  heart, 

Throb  thine  with  Nature's  throbbing  breast, 

And  all  is  clear  from  east  to  west. 

Spirit  that  lurks  each  form  within 

Beckons  to  spirit  of  its  kin; 

Self-kindled  every  atom  glows 

And  hints  the  future  which  it  owes. 

1844. 

EXPERIENCE 

THE  lords  of  life,  the  lords  of  life,  — 
I  saw  them  pass 
In  their  own  guise, 
Like  and  unlike, 
Portly  and  grim,  — 
Use  and  Surprise, 
Surface  and  Dream, 
Succession  swift  and  spectral  Wrong, 
Temperament  without  a  tongue, 
And  the  inventor  of  the  game 
Omnipresent  without  name;  — 
Some  to  see,  some  to  be  guessed, 
They  marched  from  east  to  west: 
Little  man,  least  of  all, 
Among  the  legs  of  his  guardians  tall, 
Walked  about  with  puzzled  look. 
Him  by  the  hand  dear  Nature  took, 
Dearest  Nature,  strong  and  kind, 
Whispered,  '  Darling,  never  mind  ! 
To-morrow  they  will  wear  another  face, 
The  founder  thou;  these  are  thy  race  ! ' 
1844. 


THRENODY2 

THE  South-wind  brings 

Life,  sunshine  and  desire, 

And  on  every  mount  and  meadow 

Breathes  aromatic  fire; 

1  This  and  the  following  poem  were  first  used  as  mot- 
toes for  the  essays  '  Nature  '  and  '  Experience.' 

2  Emerson  wrote    to    Carlyle,   February  28,   1842: 
:  My  dear  friend,  you  should  have  had  this  letter  and 
these  messages  by  the  last  steamer  ;  but  when  it  sailed, 
my  son,  a  perfect  little   boy  of  five  years  and  three 
months,  had  ended  his  earthly  life.   You  can  never  sym- 
pathize with  me  ;  you  can  never  know  how  much  of  me 
such  a  young  child  can  take  away.    A  few  weeks  ago  I 
accounted  myself  a  very  rich  man,  and  now  the  poor- 
est of  all.     What  would  it  avail  to  tell  you  anecdotes 
of  a  sweet  and  wonderful  boy,  such  as  we  solace  and 


But  over  the  dead  he  has  no  power, 
The  lost,  the  lost,  he  cannot  restore; 
And,  looking  over  the  hills,  I  mourn 
The  darling  who  shall  not  return. 

I  see  my  empty  house, 

I  see  my  trees  repair  their  boughs;  ie 

And  he,  the  wondrous  child, 

Whose  silver  warble  wild 

Outvalued  every  pulsing  sound 

Within  the  air's  cerulean  round,  — 

The  hyacinthine  boy,  for  whom 

Morn  well  might  break  and  April  bloom, 

The  gracious  boy,  who  did  adorn 

The  world  whereinto  he  was  born, 

And  by  his  countenance  repay 

The  favor  of  the  loving  Day,  —  ac 

Has  disappeared  from  the  Day's  eye; 

Far  and  wide  she  cannot  find  him; 

My  hopes  pursue,  they  cannot  bind  him. 

Returned  this  day,  the  South-wind  searches, 

And  finds  young  pines  and  budding  birches; 

But  finds  not  the  budding  man; 

Nature,  who  lost,  cannot  remake  him; 

Fate  let  him  fall,  Fate  can't  retake  him; 

Nature,  Fate,  men,  him  seek  in  vain. 

And   whither   now,   my   truant   wise    and 
sweet,  3o 

O,  whither  tend  thy  feet  ? 
I  had  the  right,  few  days  ago, 
Thy  steps  to  watch,  thy  place  to  know: 
How  have  I  forfeited  the  right  ? 
Hast  thou  forgot  me  in  a  new  delight  ? 
I  hearken  for  thy  household  cheer, 
O  eloquent  child  ! 
Whose  voice,  an  equal  messenger, 
Conveyed  thy  meaning  mild. 
What  though  the  pains  and  joys  40 

Whereof  it  spoke  were  toys 
Fitting  his  age  and  ken, 
Yet  fairest  dames  and  bearded  men, 
Who  heard  the  sweet  request, 
So  gentle,  wise  and  grave, 
Bended  with  joy  to  his  behest 
And  let  the  world's  affairs  go  by,    ' 

sadden  ourselves  with  at  home  every  morning  and  even- 
ing ?  From  a  perfect  health  and  as  happy  a  life  and  as 
happy  influences  as  ever  child  enjoyed,  lie  was  hurried 
out  of  my  arms  in  three  short  days.'  (Carlyle-Emer- 
ton  Correspondence,  vol.  i,  pp.  389,  390.) 

In  his  Journal,  January  30,  he  wrote  :  '  This  boy,  in 
whose  remembrance  I  have  both  slept  and  awaked  w> 
oft,  decorated  for  me  the  morning  star  and  the  evening 
cloud,  —  how  much  more  all  the  particulars  of  daily 
economy.  ...  A  boy  of  early  wisdom,  of  a  grave  and 
even  majestic  deportment,  of  a  perfect  gentleness.  .  .  .' 

See  also  Cabot's  Life  of  Emerson,  vol.  ii,  pp.  4S1-4S9 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


A  while  to  share  his  cordial  game, 

Or  mend  his  wicker  wagon-frame, 

Still  plotting  how  their  hungry  ear  50 

That  winsome  voice  again  might  hear; 

For  his  lips  could  well  pronounce 

Words  that  were  persuasions. 

Gentlest  guardians  marked  serene 

His  early  hope,  his  liberal  mien; 

Took  counsel  from  his  guiding  eyes 

To  make  this  wisdom  earthly  wise. 

Ah,  vainly  do  these  eyes  recall 

The  school-march,  each  day's  festival, 

When  every  morn  my  bosom  glowed         60 

To  watch  the  convoy  on  the  road; 

The  babe  in  willow  wagon  closed, 

With  rolling  eyes  and  face  composed; 

With  children  forward  and  behind, 

Like  Cupids  studiously  inclined; 

And  he  the  chieftain  paced  beside, 

The  centre  of  the  troop  allied, 

With  sunny  face  of  sweet  repose, 

To  guard  the  babe  from  fancied  foes. 

The  little  captain  innocent  70 

Took  the  eye  with  liim  as  he  went; 

Each  village  senior  paused  to  scan 

And  speak  the  lovely  caravan. 

From  the  window  I  look  out 

To  mark  thy  beautiful  parade, 

Stately  marching  in  cap  and  coat 

To  some  tune  by  fairies  played;  — 

A  music  heard  by  thee  alone 

To  works  as  noble  led  thee  on. 

Now  Love  and  Pride,  alas  !  in  vain,          So 

Up  and  down  their  glances  strain. 

The  painted  sled  stands  where  it  stood; 

The  kennel  by  the  corded  wood; 

His  gathered  sticks  to  stanch  the  wall 

Of  the  snow-tower,  when  snow  should  fall; 

The  ominous  hole  he  dug  in  the  sand, 

And  childhood's  castles  built  or  planned; 

His  daily  haunts  I  well  discern,  — 

The  poultry-yard,  the  shed,  the  barn,  — 

And  every  inch  of  garden  ground  90 

Paced  by  the  blessed  feet  around, 

From  the  roadside  to  the  brook 

Whereinto  he  loved  to  look. 

Step    the    meek  fowls   where    erst    they 

ranged; 

'The  wintry  garden  lies  unchanged; 
The  brook  into  the  stream  runs  on; 
But  the  deep-eyed  boy  is  gone.1 

»  The  chrysalis  which  he  brought  in  with  care  and 
tenderness  and  gave  to  his  mother  to  keep  is  still  alive, 


On  that  shaded  day, 

Dark  with  more  clouds  than  tempests  are, 

When     thou     didst     yield     thy    innocent 

breath  i00 

In  birdlike  heavings  unto  death, 
Night  came,  and  Nature  had  not  thee ; 
I  said,  '  We  are  mates  in  misery.' 
The  morrow  dawned  with  needless  glow; 
Each   snowbird   chirped,  each   fowl   must 

crow; 

Each  tramper  started ;  but  the  feet 
Of  the  most  beautiful  and  sweet 
Of  human  youth  had  left  the  hill 
And  garden,  —  they  were  bound  and  still. 
There  's  not  a  sparrow  or  a  wren,  no 

There  's  not  a  blade  of  autumn  grain, 
Which  the  four  seasons  do  not  tend 
And  tides  of  life  and  increase  lend; 
And  every  chick  of  every  bird, 
And  weed  and  rock-moss  is  preferred. 
O  ostrich-like  forgetfulness  ! 
O  loss  of  larger  in  the  less  ! 
Was  there  no  star  that  could  be  sent, 
No  watcher  in  the  firmament, 
No  angel  from  the  countless  host  uo 

That  loiters  round  the  crystal  coast, 
Could  stoop  to  heal  that  only  child, 
Nature's  sweet  marvel  undefiled, 
And  keep  the  blossom  of  the  earth, 
Which  all  her  harvests  were  not  worth  ? 
Not  mine,  —  I  never  called  thee  mine, 
But  Nature's  heir,  —  if  I  repine, 
And  seeing  rashly  torn  and  moved 
Not  what  I  made,  but  what  I  loved, 
Grow  early  old  with  grief  that  thou          J3o 
Must  to  the  wastes  of  Nature  go,  — 
'T  is  because  a  general  hope 
Was   quenched,  and   all   must  doubt  and 

grope. 

For  flattering  planets  seemed  to  say 
This  child  should  ills  of  ages  stay. 
By  wondrous  tongue,  and  guided  pen, 
Bring  the  flown  Muses  back  to  men. 
Perchance  not  he  but  Nature  ailed, 
The  world  and  not  the  infant  failed. 
It  was  not  ripe  yet  to  sustain  140 

A  genius  of  so  fine  a  strain, 
Who  gazed  upon  the  sun  and  moon 
As  if  he  came  unto  his  own, 
And,  pregnant  with  his  grander  thought, 
Brought  the  old  order  into  doubt. 
His  beauty  once  their  beauty  tried  ; 
They  could  not  feed  him,  and  he  died, 

and  he,  most  beautiful  of  the  children  of  men,  is  not 
here.     (Journal,  1842.) 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


79 


And  wandered  backward  as  in  scorn, 

To  wait  an  a?on  to  be  born. 

Ill  day  which  made  this  beauty  waste,     150 

Plight  broken,  this  high  face  defaced  ! 

Some  went  and  came  about  the  dead; 

And  some  in  books  of  solace  read; 

Some  to  their  friends  the  tidings  say; 

Some  went  to  write,  some  went  to  pray; 

One  tarried  here,  there  hurried  one; 

But  their  heart  abode  with  none. 

Covetous  death  bereaved  us  all, 

To  aggrandize  one  funeral. 

The  eager  fate  which  carried  thee  160 

Took  the  largest  part  of  me : 

For  this  losing  is  true  dying; 

This  is  lordly  man's  down-lying, 

This  his  slow  but  sure  reclining, 

Star  by  star  his  world  resigning. 

0  child  of  paradise, 

Boy  who  made  dear  his  father's  home, 

In  whose  deep  eyes 

Men  read  the  welfare  of  the  times  to  come, 

1  am  too  much  bereft.  170 
The  world  dishonored  thou  hast  left. 

O  truth's  and  nature's  costly  lie  ! 
O  trusted  broken  prophecy  ! 

0  richest  fortune  sourly  crossed  ! 
Born  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost ! 

The  deep  Heart  answered, '  Weepest  thou  ? 

Worthier  cause  for  passion  wild 

If  I  had  not  taken  the  child. 

And  deemest  thou  as  those  who  pore, 

With  aged  eyes,  short  way  before,  —       180 

Think'st  Beauty  vanished  from  the  coast 

Of  matter,  and  thy  darling  lost  ? 

Taught  he  not  thee  —  the  man  of  eld, 

Whose  eyes  within  his  eyes  beheld 

Heaven's  numerous  hierarchy  span 

The  mystic  gulf  from  God  to  man  ? 

To  be  alone  wilt  thou  begin 

When  worlds  of  lovers  hem  thee  in  ? 

To-morrow,  when  the  masks  shall  fall 

That  dizen  Nature's  carnival,  190 

The  pure  shall  see  by  their  own  will, 

Which  overflowing  Love  shall  fill, 

'T  is  not  within  the  force  of  fate 

The  fate-con  joined  to  separate. 

But  thou,  my  votary,  weepest  thou  ? 

1  gave  thee  sight  —  where  is  it  now  ? 
I  taught  thy  heart  beyond  the  reach 
Of  ritual,  bible,  or  of  speech; 
Wrote  in  thy  mind's  transparent  table, 

As  far  as  the  incommunicable;  100 


Taught  thee  each  private  sign  to  raise 
Lit  by  the  supersolar  blaze. 
Past  utterance,  and  past  belief, 
And  past  the  blasphemy  of  grief, 
The  mysteries  of  Nature's  heart; 
And  though  no  Muse  can  these  impart, 
Throb  thine  with  Nature's  throbbing  breast, 
And  all  is  clear  from  east  to  west. 

'  I  came  to  thee  as  to  a  friend; 

Dearest,  to  thee  I  did  not  send  aic 

Tutors,  but  a  joyful  eye, 

Innocence  that  matched  the  sky, 

Lovely  locks,  a  form  of  wonder, 

Laughter  rich  as  woodland  thunder, 

That  thou  might'st  entertain  apart 

The  richest  flowering  of  all  art: 

And,  as  the  great  all-loving  Day 

Through  smallest  chambers  takes  its  way, 

That  thou  might'st  break  thy  daily  bread 

With  prophet,  savior  and  head ;  220 

That  thou  might'st  cherish  for  thine  own 

The  riches  of  sweet  Mary's  Son, 

Boy-Rabbi,  Israel's  paragon. 

And  thoughtest  thou  sucn  guest 

Would  in  thy  hall  take  up  his  rest  ? 

Would  rushing  life  forget  her  laws, 

Fate's  glowing  revolution  pause  ? 

High  omens  ask  diviner  guess; 

Not  to  be  conned  to  tediousness. 

And  know  my  higher  gifts  unbind  230 

The  zone  that  girds  the  incarnate  mind. 

When  the  scanty  shores  are  full 

With  Thought's  perilous,  whirling  pool; 

When  frail  Nature  can  no  more, 

Then  the  Spirit  strikes  the  hour  : 

My  servant  Death,  with  solving  rite, 

Pours  finite  into  infinite. 

Wilt  thou  freeze  love's  tidal  flow, 

Whose  streams  through  Nature  circling  go  ? 

Nail  the  wild  star  to  its  track  240 

On  the  half-climbed  zodiac  ? 

Light  is  light  which  radiates, 

Blood  is  blood  which  circulates, 

Life  is  life  which  generates, 

And  many-seeming  life  is  one,  —    ' 

Wilt  thou  transfix  and  make  it  none  ? 

Its  onward  force  too  starkly  pent 

In  figure,  bone  and  lineament  ? 

Wilt  thou,  uncalled,  interrogate, 

Talker  !  the  unreplying  Fate  ?  250 

Nor  see  the  genius  of  the  whole 

Ascendant  in  the  private  soul, 

Beckon  it  when  to  go  and  come, 

Self-announced  its  hour  of  doom  ? 


8o 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Fair  the  soul's  recess  and  shrine, 

Magic-built  to  last  a  season; 

Masterpiece  of  love  benign, 

Fairer  that  expansive  reason 

Whose  oinen  't  is,  and  sign. 

Wilt  thou  not  ope  thy  heart  to  know        260 

What  rainbows  teach,  and  sunsets  show  ? 

Verdict  which  accumulates 

From  lengthening  scroll  of  human  fates, 

Voice  of  earth  to  earth  returned, 

Prayers  of  saints  that  inly  burned,  — 

Saying,  What  is  excellent, 

As  God  lives,  is  permanent  • 

Hearts  are.  dust,  hearts'  lores  remain  ; 

Heart's  love  will  meet  thee  again. 

Revere  the  Maker;  fetch  thine  eye          270 

Up  to  his  style,  and  manners  of  the  sky. 

Not  of  adamant  and  gold 

Built  he  heaven  stark  and  cold; 

No,  but  a  nest  of  bending  reeds, 

Flowering  grass  and  scented  weeds; 

Or  like  a  traveller's  fleeing  tent, 

Or  bow  above  the  tempest  bent ; 

Built  of  tears  and  sacred  flames, 

And  virtue  reaching  to  its  aims  ; 

Built  of  furtherance  and  pursuing,  280 

Not  of  spent  deeds,  but  of  doing. 

Silent  rushes  the  swift  Lord 

Through  ruined  systems  still  restored, 

Broadsowing,  bleak  and  void  to  bless, 

Plants  with  worlds  the  wilderness; 

Waters  with  tears  of  ancient  sorrow 

Apples  of  Eden  ripe  to-morrow. 

House  and  tenant  go  to  ground, 

Lost  in  God,  in  Godhead  found.' 

1846. 

TO  J.  W.i 

SET  not  thy  foot  on  graves; 
Hear  what  wine  and  roses  say  ; 
The  mountain  chase,  the  summer  waves, 
The  crowded  town,  thy  feet  may  well  de- 
lay. 

Set  not  thy  foot  on  graves; 

Nor  seek  to  unwind  the  shroud 

Which  charitable  Time 

And  Nature  have  allowed 

To  wrap  the  errors  of  a  sage  sublime. 


Set  not  thy  foot  on  graves; 
Care  not  to  strip  the  dead 

i  To  John  Weiss,  who  had  written  i 
of  .Coleridge. 


severe  judgment 


Of  his  sad  ornament, 

His  myrrh,  and  wine,  and  rings, 

His  sheet  of  lead. 

And  trophies  buried: 

Go,  get  them  where  he  earned  them 

when  alive; 
As  resolutely  dig  or  dive. 

Life  is  too  short  to  waste 

In  critic  peep  or  cynic  bark, 

Quarrel  or  reprimand: 

'T  will  soon  be  dark; 

Up  !  mind  thine  own  aim,  and 

God  speed  the  mark  ! 

1846. 

ODE2 

INSCRIBED   TO  W.    H.   CHANNING 

THOUGH  loath  to  grieve 
The  evil  time's  sole  patriot, 
I  cannot  leave 
My  honeyed  thought 
For  the  priest's  cant, 
Or  statesman's  rant. 

If  I  refuse 

My  study  for  their  politique, 
Which  at  the  best  is  trick, 
The  angry  Muse  10 

Puts  confusion  in  my  brain. 

But  who  is  he  that  prates 
Of  the  culture  of  mankind, 
Of  better  arts  and  life? 
Go,  blind  worm,  go, 
Behold  the  famous  States 
Harrying  Mexico 
With  rifle  and  with  knife  ! 

2  The  circumstance  which  gave  rise  to  this  poem, 
though  not  known,  can  easily  be  inferred.  Rev.  William 
Henry  Channing,  nephew  of  the  great  Unitarian  divine, 
a  man  most  tender  in  his  sympathies,  with  an  apostle's 
zeal  for  right,  had,  no  doubt,  been  urging  his  friend  to 
join  the  brave  band  of  men  who  were  dedicating  their 
lives  to  the  destruction  of  human  slavery  in  the  United 
States.  To  these  men  Mr.  Emerson  gave  honor  and 
sympathy  and  active  aid  by  word  and  presence  on  im- 
portant occasions.  He  showed  his  colors  from  the  first, 
and  spoke  fearlessly  on  the  subject  in  his  lectures,  but 
his  method  was  the  reverse  of  theirs,  affirmative  not 
negative  ;  he  knew  his  office  and  followed  his  genius. 
He  said,  '  I  have  quite  other  slaves  to  free  than  those  ne- 
groes, to  wit,  imprisoned  spirits,  imprisoned  thought*. ' 
(E.  W.  EMERSON.) 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


Sr 


Or  who,  with  accent  bolder, 
Dare  praise  the  freedom-loving  mountain- 
eer ?  20 

I  found  by  thee,  O  rushing  Contoocook  ! 
And  in  thy  valleys,  Agiochook  ! 
The  jackals  of  the  negro-holder. 

The  God  who  made  New  Hampshire 

Taunted  the  lofty  land 

With  little  men;  — 

Small  bat  and  wren 

House  in  the  oak:  — 

If  earth-fire  cleave 

The  upheaved  land,  and  bury  the  folk,      30 

The  southern  crocodile  would  grieve. 

Virtue  palters  ;  Right  is  hence; 

Freedom  praised,  but  hid; 

Funeral  eloquence 

Rattles  the  coffin-lid. 

What  boots  thy  zeal, 

O  glowing  friend, 

That  would  indignant  rend 

The  northland  from  the  south  ? 

Wherefore  ?  to  what  good  end  ?  40 

Boston  Bay  and  Bunker  Hill 

Would  serve  things  still ;  — 

Things  are  of  the  snake.1 

The  horseman  serves  the^  horse, 

The  neatherd  serves  the  neat, 

The  merchant  serves  the  purse, 

The  eater  serves  his  meat; 

'T  is  the  day  of  the  chattel, 

Web  to  weave,  and  corn  to  grind; 

Things  are  in  the  saddle,  50 

And  ride  mankind. 

There  are  two  laws  discrete, 

Not  reconciled,  — 

Law  for  man,  and  law  for  thing; 

The  last  builds  town  and  fleet, 

But  it  runs  wild, 

And  doth  the  man  unking. 

'T  is  fit  the  forest  fall, 

The  steep  be  graded, 

The  mountain  tunnelled,  60 

The  sand  shaded, 

The  orchard  planted, 

The  glebe  tilled, 

1  Compare  the  essay  on  '  Self-Reliance : '  'Let  a 
man  then  know  his  worth,  and  keep  things  under  his 
feet.' 


The  prairie  granted, 
The  steamer  built. 

Let  man  serve  law  for  man; 

Live  for  friendship,  live  for  love, 

For  truth's  and  harmony's  behoof; 

The  state  may  follow  hov/  it  can, 

As  Olympus  follows  Jove.  70 

Yet  do  not  I  implore 
The    wrinkled    shopman   to  my  sounding 

woods, 

Nor  bid  the  unwilling  senator 
Ask  votes  of  thrushes  in  the  solitudes. 
Every  one  to  his  chosen  work;  — 
Foolish  hands  may  mix  and  mar; 
Wise  and  sure  the  issues  are. 
Round  they  roll  till  dark  is  light, 
Sex  to  sex,  and  even  to  odd;  — 
The  over-god  8e 

Who  marries  Right  to  Might, 
Who  peoples,  unpeoples,  — 
He  who  exterminates 
Races  by  stronger  races, 
Black  by  white  faces,  — 
Knows  to  bring  honey 
Out  of  the  lion; 
Grafts  gentlest  scion 
On  pirate  and  Turk. 

The  Cossack  eats  Poland,  90 

Like  stolen  fruit  ; 
Her  last  noble  is  ruined, 
Her  last  poet  mute  : 
Straight,  into  double  band 
The  victors  divide; 
Half  for  freedom  strike  and  stand;  — 
The  astonished  Muse  finds  thousands  at  her 

side. 

1846. 

MERLIN 

THY  trivial  harp  will  never  please 

Or  fill  my  craving  ear; 

Its  chords  should  ring  as  blows  the  breeze, 

Free,  peremptory,  clear. 

No  jingling  serenader's  art, 

Nor  tinkle  of  piano  strings, 

Can  make  the  wild  blood  start 

In  its  mystic  springs. 

The  kingly  bard 

Must  smite  the  chords  rudely  and  hard,   10 

As  with  hammer  or  with  mace; 

That  they  may  render  back 

Artful  thunder,  which  conveys 


82 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Secrets  of  the  solar  track, 

Sparks  of  the  supersolar  blaze. 

Merlin's  blows  are  strokes  of  fate, 

Chiming  with  the  forest  tone, 

When  boughs  buffet  boughs  in  the  wood; 

Chiming  with  the  gasp  and  moan 

Of  the  ice-imprisoned  flood;  20 

With  the  pulse  of  manly  hearts ; 

With  the  voice  of  orators; 

With  the  din  of  city  arts; 

With  the  cannonade  of  wars; 

With  the  marches  of  the  brave; 

And  prayers  of  might  from  martyrs'  cave. 

Great  is  the  art, 

Great  be  the  manners,  of  the  bard. 

He  shall  not  his  brain  encumber 

With  the  coil  of  rhythm  and  number;        30 

But,  leaving  rule  and  pale  forethought, 

He  shall  aye  climb 

For  his  rhyme. 

'Pass  in,  pass  in,'  the  angels  say, 

'  In  to  the  upper  doors, 

Nor  count  compartments  of  the  floors, 

But  mount  to  paradise 

By  the  stairway  of  surprise.' 

Blameless  master  of  the  games, 

King  of  sport  that  never  shames,  4o 

He  shall  daily  joy  dispense 

Hid  in  song's  sweet  influence. 

Forms  more  cheerly  live  and  go, 

What  time  the  subtle  mind 

Sings  aloud  the  tune  whereto 

Their  pulses  beat, 

And  march  their  feet, 

And  their  members  are  combined. 

By  Sybarites  beguiled, 

He  shall  no  task  decline.  50 

Merlin's  mighty  line 

Extremes  of  nature  reconciled,  — 

Bereaved  a  tyrant  of  his  will, 

And  made  the  lion  mild. 

Songs  can  the  tempest  still, 

Scattered  on  the  stormy  air, 

Mould  the  year  to  fair  increase; 

And  bring  in  poetic  peace. 

He  shall  not  seek  to  weave, 

In  weak,  unhappy  times,  60 

Efficacious  rhymes; 

Wait  his  returning  strength. 

Bird  that  from  nadir's  floor 

To  the  zenith's  top  can  soar,  — 


The  soaring  orbit  of  the  muse  exceeds  that 

journey's  length. 
Nor  profane  affect  to  hit 
Or  compass  that,  by  meddling  wit, 
Which  only  the  propitious  mind 
Publishes  when  't  is  inclined. 
There  are  open  hours  ?0 

When  the  God's  will  sallies  free, 
And  the  dull  idiot  might  see 
The  flowing  fortunes  of  a  thousand  years ; — 
Sudden,  at  unawares, 
Self-moved,  fly-to  the  doors, 
Nor  sword  of  angels  could  reveal 
What  they  conceal. 
1846-46.  1846. 


THE  WORLD-SOUL 

THANKS  to  the  morning  light, 

Thanks  to  the  foaming  sea, 
To  the  uplands  of  New  Hampshire, 

To  the  green-haired  forest  free; 
Thanks  to  each  man  of  courage, 

To  the  maids  of  holy  mind, 
To  the  boy  with  his  games  undaunted 

Who  never  looks  behind. 

Cities  of  proud  hotels, 

Houses  of  ricji  and  great, 
Vice  nestles  in  your  chambers, 

Beneath  your  roofs  of  slate. 
It  cannot  conquer  folly,  — 

Time-and-space-conquering  steam,  — 
And  the  light-outspeeding  telegraph 

Bears  nothing  on  its  beam. 

The  politics  are  base ; 

The  letters  do  not  cheer; 
And  't  is  far  in  the  deeps  of  history, 

The  voice  that  speaketh  clear.  ~ 

Trade  and  the  streets  ensnare  us, 

Our  bodies  are  weak  and  worn; 
We  plot  and  corrupt  each  other, 

And  we  despoil  the  unborn. 

Yet  there  in  the  parlor  sits 

Some  figure  of  noble  guise,  — 
Our  angel,  in  a  stranger's  form, 

Or  woman's  pleading  eyes ; 
Or  only  a  flashing  sunbeam 

In  at  the  window-pane ;  3 

Or  Music  pours  on  mortals 

Its  beautiful  disdain. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


The  inevitable  morning 

Finds  them  who  in  cellars  be; 
And  be  sure  the  all-loving  Nature 

Will  smiie  in  a  factory. 
Yon  ridge  of  purple  landscape, 

Yon  sky  between  the  walls, 
Hold  all  the  hidden  wonders 

In  scanty  intervals.  40 

Alas  !  the  Sprite  that  haunts  us 

Deceives  our  rash  desire; 
It  whispers  of  the  glorious  gods, 

And  leaves  us  in  the  mire. 
We  cannot  learu  the  cipher 

That 's  writ  upon  our  cell; 
Stars  taunt  us  by  a  mystery 

Which  we  could  never  spell. 

If  but  one  hero  knew  it, 

The  world  would  blush  in  flame;        50 
The  sage,  till  he  hit  the  secret, 

Would  hang  bis  head  for  shame. 
Our  brothers  have  not  read  it, 

Not  one  has  found  the  key; 
And  henceforth  we  are  comforted,  — 

We  are  but  such  as  they.1 

Still,  still  the  secret  presses; 

The  nearing  clouds  draw  down; 
The  crimson  morning  flames  into 

The  fopperies  of  the  town.  60 

Within,  without  the  idle  earth, 

Stars  weave  eternal  rings; 
The  sun  himself  shines  heartily, 

And  shares  the  joy  he  brings. 

And  what  if  Trade  sow  cities 

Like  shells  along  the  shore, 
And  thatch  with  towns  the  prairie  broad 

With  railways  ironed  o'er  ?  — 
They  are  but  sailing  foam-bells 

Along  Thought's  causing  stream,        7o 
And  take  their  shape  and  sun-color 

From  him  that  sends  the  dream. 

For  Destiny  never  swerves 
Nor  yields  to  men  the  helm ; 

He  shoots  his  thought,  by  hidden  nerves, 
Throughout  the  solid  realm. 

The  patient  Daemon  sits, 
With  roses  and  a  shroud  ; 

*  There  is  something  —  our  brothers  over  the  sea 
lonot  know  it  or  own  it—  .  .  .  which  is  setting  them 
»11  aside,  and  the  whole  world  also,  and  planting  itself 
forever  and  ever.  (Journal,  1851.) 


He  has  his  way,  and  deals  his  gifts,  — 
But  ours  is  not  allowed.  So 

He  is  no  churl  nor  trifler, 

And  his  viceroy  is  none,  — 
Love-without- weakness,  — 

Of  Genius  sire  and  son. 
And  his  will  is  not  thwarted; 

The  seeds  of  land  and  sea 
Are  the  atoms  of  his  body  bright, 

And  his  behest  obey. 

He  serveth  the  servant, 

The  brave  he  loves  amain;  9? 

He  kills  the  cripple  and  the  sick, 

And  straight  begins  again; 
For  gods  delight  in  gods, 

And  thrust  the  weak  aside; 
To  him  who  scorns  their  charities 

Their  arms  fly  open  wide. 

When  the  old  world  is  sterile 

And  the  ages  are  effete, 
He  will  from  wrecks  and  sediment 

The  fairer  world  complete.  100 

.    He  forbids  to  despair; 

His  cheeks  mantle  with  mirth; 
And  the  unimagined  good  of  men 

Is  yeaning  at  the  birth. 

Spring  still  makes  spring  in  the  mind 

When  sixty  years  are  told; 
Love  wakes  anew  this  throbbing  heart, 

And  we  are  never  old; 
Over  the  winter  glaciers 

I  see  the  summer  glow,  1 10 

And  through  the  wild-piled  snow-drift 

The  warm  rosebuds  below. 

1846. 

HAMATREYA 

BULKELEY,  Hunt,  Willard,  Hosmer,  Meri- 

am,  Flint  2 
Possessed  the  land  which  rendered  to  their 

toil 
Hay,  corn,  roots,  hemp,  flax,  apples,  wool 

and  wood. 
Each  of  these  landlords  walked  amidst  his 

farm, 
Saying,  '  T  is  mine,  my  children's  and  my 

name's. 
How  sweet   the  west  wind   sounds  in  my 

own  trees'; 
•  All  names  of  early  settlers  in  the  town  of  Concord. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


How  graceful  climb  those  shadows  on  my 

hill! 

I  fancy  these  pure  waters  and  the  flags 
Know  me, as  does  my  dog:  we  sympathize; 
And,  I  affirm,  my  actions  smack  of  the 

soil.'  10 

Where  are   these  men  ?     Asleep  beneath 

their  grounds: 
And  strangers,  fond  as  they,  their  furrows 

plough. 
Earth  laughs  in  flowers,  to  see  her  boastful 

boys 
Earth-proud,  proud  of  the  earth  which  is 

not  theirs; 
Who  steer   the   plough,  but  cannot   steer 

their  feet 

Clear  of  the  grave. 

They  added  ridge  to  valley,  brook  to  pond, 
And  sighed  for  all  that  bounded  their  do- 
main; 
'  This  suits  me  for  a  pasture ;  that 's  my 

park; 
We  must  have  clay,  lime,  gravel,  granite- 


And  misty  lowland,  where  to  go  for  peat.  . 
The  land  is  well,  —  lies  fairly  to  the  south. 
'T  is  good,  when  you  have  crossed  the  sea 

and  back, 
To  find  the  sitfast  acres  where   you  left 

them.' 
Ah  !  the  hot  owner   sees  not  Death,  who 

adds 

Him  to  his  land,  a  lump  of  mould  the  more. 
Hear  what  the  Earth  says :  — 

EARTH-SONG 

'  Mine  and  yours ; 

Mine,  not  yours. 

Earth  endures;  30 

Stars  abide  — 

Shine  down  in  the  old  sea; 

Old  are  the  shores; 

But  where  are  old  men  ? 

I  who  have  seen  much, 

Such  have  I  never  seen. 

'  The  lawyer's  deed 

Ran  sure, 

In  tail, 

To  them,  and  to  their  heirs       40 

Who  shall  succeed, 

Without  fail, 

Fore  verm  ore. 


'  Here  is  the  land, 
Shaggy  with  wood, 
With  its  old  valley, 
Mound  and  flood. 
But  the  heritors  ?  — 
Fled  like  the  flood's  foam. 
The  lawyer,  and  the  laws, 
And  the  kingdom, 
Clean  swept  herefrom. 

'  They  called  me  theirs, 

Who  so  controlled  me; 

Yet  every  one 

Wished  to  stay,  and  is  gone, 

How  am  I  theirs, 

If  they  cannot  hold  me, 

But  I  hold  them  ?  ' 

When  I  heard  the  Earth-song 

I  was  no  longer  brave; 

My  avarice  cooled 

Like  lust  in  the  chill  of  the  grave. 


FORERUNNERS1 


1846. 


LONG  I  followed  happy  guides, 

I  could  never  reach  their  sides; 

Their  step  is  forth,  and,  ere  the  day 

Breaks  up  their  leaguer,  and  away. 

Keen  my  sense,  my  heart  was  young, 

Right  good-will  my  sinews  strung, 

But  no  speed  of  mine  avails 

To  hunt  upon  their  shining  trails. 

On  and  away,  their  hasting  feet 

Make  the  morning  proud  and  sweet;      10 

Flowers  they  strew,  —  I  catch  the  scent; 

Or  tone  of  silver  instrument 

Leaves  on  the  wind  melodious  trace; 

Yet  I  could  never  see  their  face. 

On  eastern  hills  I  see  their  smokes, 

Mixed  with  mist  by  distant  lochs. 

I  met  many  travellers 

Who  the  road  had  surely  kept; 

They  saw  not  my  fine  revellers,  —         19 

These  had  crossed  them  while  they  slept. 

Some  had  heard  their  fair  report, 

In  the  country  or  the  court. 

Fleetest  couriers  alive 

Never  yet  could  once  arrive, 

i  Compare  Lowell's  '  Envoi,  To  the  Muse,'  and  Whit- 
tier's  '  The  Vanishers ; '  and  also,  in  Emerson's  essay 
on  '  Nature '  (Essays,  Second  Series),  the  third  para- 
graph from  the  end,  beginning  '  Quite  analogous  to  the 
deceits  in  life.' 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON 


As  they  went  or  they  returned, 

At  the  house  where  these  sojourned. 

Sometimes  their  strong  speed  they  slacken, 

Though  they  are  not  overtaken; 

In  sleep  their  jubilant  troop  is  near,  — 

I  tuneful  voices  overhear;  30 

It  may  be  in  wood  or  waste,  — 

At  unawares  'tis  come  and  past. 

Their  near  camp  my  spirit  knows 

By  signs  gracious  as  rainbows. 

I  thenceforward  and  long  after 

Listen  for  their  harp-like  laughter, 

And  carry  in  my  heart,  for  days, 

Peace  that  hallows  rudest  ways. 

1846. 


GIVE   ALL  TO   LOVE 

GIVE  all  to  love; 

Obey  thy  heart; 

Friends,  kindred,  days, 

Estate,  good-fame, 

Plans,  credit  and  the  Muse,  — 

Nothing  refuse. 

'  T  is  a  brave  master; 

Let  it  have  scope  : 

Follow  it  utterly, 

Hope  beyond  hope :  i 

High  and  more  high 

It  dives  into  noon, 

With  wing  unspent, 

Untold  intent; 

But  it  is  a  god, 

Knows  its  own  path 

And  the  outlets  of  the  sky. 

It  was  never  for  the  mean; 

It  requireth  courage  stout. 

Souls  above  doubt,  j 

Valor  unbending, 

It  will  reward,  — 

They  shall  return  . 

More  than  they  were, 

And  ever  ascending. 

Leave  all  for  love; 

Yet,  hear  me,  yet, 

One  word  more  thy  heart  behoved, 

One  pulse  more  of  firm  endeavor,  — 

Keep  thee  to-day,  3 

To-morrow,  forever, 

Free  as  an  Arab 

Of  thy  beloved. 


Cling  with  life  to  the  maid; 

But  when  the  surprise, 

First  vague  shadow  of  surmise 

Flits  across  her  bosom  young, 

Of  a  joy  apart  from  thee, 

Free  be  she,  fancy-free; 

Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture's  hem, 

Nor  the  palest  rose  she  flung 

From  her  summer  diadem. 

Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 

As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 

Though  her  parting  dims  the  day, 

Stealing  grace  from  all  alive; 

Heartily  know, 

When  half-gods  go, 

The  gods  arrive. 


1846. 


THE    DAY'S    RATION  » 


WHEN  I  was  born, 
From  all  the  seas  of  strength  Fate  filled  a 

chalice, 
Saying,  'This  be  thy  portion,  child;   this 

chalice, 

Less  than  a  lily's,  thou  shalt  daily  draw 
From  my   great   arteries,  —  nor  less,  nor 

more.' 

All  substances  the  cunning  chemist  Time 
Melts  down  into  that  liquor  of  my  life,  — 
Friends,  foes,  joys,  fortunes,  beauty  ?nd 

disgust. 

And  whether  I  am  angry  or  content, 
Indebted  or  insulted,  loved  or  hurt,  10 

All  he  distils  into  sidereal  wine 
And  brims  my  little  cup;  heedless,  alas  ! 
Of  all  he  sheds  how  little  it  will  hold, 
How  much  runs  over  on  the  desert  sands. 
If  a  new  Muse  draw  me  with  splendid  ray, 
And  I  uplift  myself  into  its  heaven, 
The   needs  of   the   first   sight   absorb  my 

blood, 

And  all  the  following  hours  of  the  day 
Drag  a  ridiculous  age. 
To-day,  when  friends  approach,  and  every 

hour  20 

Brings  book,  or  starbright  scroll  of  genius, 
The  little  cup  will  hold  not  a  bead  more, 
And  all  the  costly  liquor  runs  to  waste; 

1  Compare  the  essay  on  '  Montaicrne,'  in  Representa- 
tive Men:  '  To  each  man  is  administered  a  single  drop, 
a  bead  of  dew  of  vital  power,  per  day,  —  a  cup  as  large 
as  space,  and  one  drop  of  the  water  of  life  in  it.'  See 
the  whole  passage. 


36 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Nor  gives  the  jealous   lord  one  diamond 

drop 

So  to  be  husbanded  for  poorer  days. 
Why  need  I  volumes,  if  one  word  suffice  ? 
Why    need    I    galleries,   when   a   pupil's 

draught 

After  the  master's  sketch  fills  and  o'erfills 
My  apprehension  ?  Why  seek  Italy, 
Who  cannot  circumnavigate  the  sea  30 

Of  thoughts  and  things  at  home,  but  still 

adjourn 

The  nearest  matters  for  a  thousand  days  ? l 

1846. 

MEROPS 

WHAT  care  I,  so  they  stand  the  same,  — 
Things  of  the  heavenly  mind,  — 

How  long  the  power  to  give  them  name 
Tarries  yet  behind  ? 

Thus  far  to-day  your  favors  reach, 
O  fair,  appeasing  presences  ! 

Ye  taught  my  lips  a  single  speech, 
And  a  thousand  silences. 

Space  grants  beyond  his  fated  road 

No  inch  to  the  god  of  day ; 
And  copious  language  still  bestowed 

One  word,  no  more,  to  say. 


1846. 


MUSKETAQUID 


BECAUSE  I  was   content  with   these  poor 

fields, 
Low,   open   meads,   slender   and   sluggish 

streams, 
And  found  a  home  in  haunts  which  others 

scorned, 

The  partial  wood-gods  overpaid  my  love, 
And    granted    me   the   freedom   of    their 

state, 

And  in  their  secret  senate  have  prevailed 
With  the  dear,  dangerous  lords  that  rule 

our  life,* 
Made  moon   and   planets  parties  to  their 

bond, 

And  through  my  rock-like,  solitary  wont 
Shot  million  rays  of  thought  and  tender- 


1  See  the  poems  '  Written  at  Rome '  and  '  Written 
in  Naples,'  with  the  notes  on  them ;  and  compare  also 
Whittier's  '  To ,'  and  '  The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn.' 

1  Compare  the  poem  '  Experience.' 


For  me,  in  showers,  in  sweeping  showers, 

the  Spring 
Visits     the     valley ;  —  break     away     the 

clouds,  — 

I  bathe  in  the  morn's  soft  and  silvered  air, 
And  loiter  willing  by  yon  loitering  stream. 
Sparrows  far  off,  and  nearer,  April's  bird, 
Blue-coated,  —  flying  before  from  tree  to 

tree, 

Courageous  sing  a  delicate  overture 
To  lead  the  tardy  concert  of  the  year. 
Onward  and  nearer  rides  the  sun  of  May; 
And   wide   around,   the  marriage   of    the 

plants  20 

Is  sweetly  solemnized.  Then  flows  amain 
The  surge  of  summer's  beauty;  dell  and 

crag, 

Hollow  and  lake,  hillside  and  pine  arcade, 
Are  touched  with  genius.  Yonder  ragged 

cliff 
Has  thousand  faces  in  a  thousand  hours. 

Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds   mindful    still   of   sannup    and    of 

squaw, 
Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plough  un- 

buries, 
Here  in  pine  houses   built    of  new-fallen 

trees,  3o 

Supplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell. 
Traveller,  to  thee,  perchance,  a  tedious 

road, 

Or,  it  may  be,  a  picture;  to  these  men, 
The  landscape  is  an  armory  of  powers, 
Which,  one  by  one,  they  know  to  draw  and 

use. 
They  harness   beast,  bird,  insect,  to  their 

work; 
They  prove   the  virtues   of  each  bed  of 

rock, 

And,  like  the  chemist  'mid  his  loaded  jars, 
Draw  from  each  stratum  its  adapted  use 
To  drug  their  crops  or  weapon  their  arts 

withal.  40 

They  turn  the  frost  upon  their  chemic  heap, 
They  set  the  wind  to  winnow  pulse  and 

grain, 
They  thank  the  spring-flood  for  its  fertile 

slime, 

And,  on  cheap  summit-levels  of  the  snow, 
Slide  with  the  sledge  to  inaccessible  woods 
O'er  meadows  bottomless.  So,  year  by 

year, 
They  fight  the  elements  with  elements 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON 


(That  one  would  say,  meadow  and  forest 

walked, 

Transmuted  in  these  men  to  rule  their  like), 
And  by  the  order  in  the  field  disclose  50 
The  order  regnant  in  the  yeoman's  brain. 

What  these  strong  masters  wrote  at  large 

in  miles, 

I  followed  in  small  copy  in  my  acre; 
For  there  's  no  rood  has  not  a  star  above  it; l 
The  cordial  quality  of  pear  or  plum 
Ascends  as  gladly  in  a  single  tree 
As  in  broad  orchards  resonant  with  bees; 
And  every  atom  poises  for  itself, 
And  for  the  whole.     The  gentle  deities 
Showed  me  the  lore  of  colors  and  of  sounds, 
The  innumerable  tenements  of  beauty,      61 
The  miracle  of  generative  force, 
Far-reaching  concords  of  astronomy 
Felt  in  the  plants  and  in  the  punctual  birds; 
Better,  the  linked  purpose  of  the  whole, 
And,  chiefest  prize,  found  I  true  liberty 
In  the  glad  home  plain-dealing  Nature  gave. 
The  polite  found  me  impolite ;  the  great 
Would  mortify  me,  but  in  vain;  for  still 
I  am  a  willow  of  the  wilderness,  7o 

Loving  the  wind  that  bent  me.  All  my  hurts 
My  garden  spade  can  heal.  A  woodland 

walk, 

A  quest  of  river-grapes,  a  mocking  thrush, 
A  wild-rose,  or  rock-loving  columbine, 
Salve  my  worst  wounds. 
For  thus  the  wood-gods  murmured  in  my 

ear: 
'  Dost  love  our  manners  ?  Canst  thou  silent 

lie? 
Canst  thou,  thy  pride  forgot,  like  Nature 

pass 

Into  the  winter  night's  extinguished  mood  ? 
Canst  thou  shine  now,  then  darkle,  80 

And  being  latent,  feel  thyself  no  less  ? 
As,  when  the  all-worshipped  moon  attracts 

the  eye, 

The  river,  hill,  stems,  foliage  are  obscure, 
Yet  envies  none,  none  are  unenviable.' 

1846. 

NATURE 

A  SUBTLE  chain  of  countless  rings 
The  next  unto  the  farthest  brings; 

1  Over  every  chimney  is  a  star;  in  every  field  is  an 
oaken  garland  or  a  wreath  of  parsley,  laurel  or  wheat- 
ears  Nature  waits  to  decorate  every  child.  (Journal, 
1840.) 


The  eye  reads  omens  where  it  goes, 
And  speaks  all  languages  the  rose; 
And,  striving  to  be  man,  the  worm 
Mounts  through  all  the  spires  of  form.2 
184» 

DAYS8 

DAUGHTERS  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 
Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 
To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 
Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds 

them  all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 
Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.   I,  too  late, 
Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 
1851  ?  1857. 

TWO   RIVERS4 

THY  summer  voice,  Musketaquit, 
Repeats  the  music  of  the  rain; 

z  Prefixed  to  Emerson's  '  Nature,'  in  the  second  edi- 
tion (1849),  ten  years  before  the  publication  of  Darwin'* 
Origin  of  Species. 

3  Compare  Emerson's  expression  in  prose  of  the  same 
idea  in  his  '  Works  and  Days '  :  '  The  days  are  ever 
divine,  as  to  the  first  Aryans.     They  come  and  go  like 
muffled  and  veiled  figures,  sent  from  a  distant  friendly 
party  ;  but  they  say  nothing,  and  if  we  do  not  use  the 
gifts  they  bring,  they  carry  them  as  silently  away.' 
See  Holmes's  comparison  of  this  passage  with  the  poem, 
as  typical  of  the  essential  differences  between  prose  and 
poetry,  in  his  Life  of  Emerson,  pp.  310-314. 

Lowell  calls  this  poem  '  as  limpid  and  complete  as  a 
Greek  epigram.'  (Life  of  Lowell,  vol.  i,  p.  414.) 

4  The  Journal  of  1856  shows  the  '  Two  Rivers,'  per- 
haps the  most  musical  of  his  poems,  as  the  thought  first 
came  to  him  by  the  river-bank  and  was  then  brought 
into  form. 

'Thy  voice  is  sweet,  Musketaquid,  and  repeats  the 
music  of  the  rain,  but  sweeter  is  the  silent  stream  which 
flows  even  through  thee,  as  thou  through  the  land. 

'  Thou  art  shut  in  thy  banks,  but  the  stream  I  love 
flows  in  thy  water,  and  flows  through  rocks  and  through 
the  air  and  through  rays  of  light  as  well,  and  through 
darkness,  and  through  men  and  women. 

'I  hear  and  see  the  inundation  and  the  eternal  spend- 
ingi  of  the  stream  in  winter  and  in  summer,  in  men  and 
animals,  in  passion  and  thought.  Happy  are  they  who 
can  hear  it.' 

1 1  see  thy  brimming,  eddying  stream 
And  thy  enchantment. 
For  thou  changes!  every  rock  in  thy  bed 
Into  a  gem, 
All  is  opal  and  agate. 
And  at  will  thou  pavest  with  diamonds; 
Take  them  away  from  the  stream 
And  they  are  poor,  ehreds  and  flints. 
So  is  it  with  me  to-day.' 

(E.  W.  EMERSON,  Emerson  in  Concord,  pp.  232-233) 


88 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


But  sweeter  rivers  pulsing  flit 
Through   thee,  as   thou   through  Concord 
Plain. 

Thou  in  thy  narrow  banks  art  pent: 
The  stream  I  love  unbounded  goes 
Through  flood  and  sea  and  firmament; 
Through  light,  through  life,  it  forward  flows. 

I  see  the  inundation  sweet, 
I  hear  the  spending  of  the  stream 
Through  years,  through  men,  through  Na- 
ture fleet, 

Through  love  and  thought,  through  power 
and  dream. 

Musketaquit,  a  goblin  strong, 
Of  shard  and  flint  makes  jewels  gay; 
They  lose  their  grief  who  hear  his  song, 
And  where  he  winds  is  the  day  of  day. 

So  forth  and  brighter  fares  my  stream,  — 
Who  drink  it  shall  not  thirst  again; 
No  darkness  stains  its  equal  gleam 
And  ages  drop  in  it  like  rain. 

1856-57.  1858. 

BRAHMA1 

IF  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

1  This  simple  and  condensed  figurative  statement  of 
one  of  the  commonplaces  of  any  idealistic  philosophy, 
whether  Hindu,  Platonist,  Berkeleian,  or  Hegelian, 
greatly  astonished  the  matter-of-fact  Americans  of  1857, 
and  aroused  more  ridicule  and  parody  than  any  other 
of  Emerson's  poems.  J.  T.  Trowbridge  describes  its 
effect  as  follows :  '  It  was  more  talked  about  and 
puzzled  over  and  parodied  than  any  other  poem  of  six- 
teen lines  published  within  my  recollection.  "  What 
does  it  mean?"  was  the  question  readers  everywhere 
asked ;  and  if  one  had  the  reputation  of  seeing  a  little 
way  into  the  Concord  philosophy,  he  was  liable  at  any 
time  to  be  stopped  on  the  street  by  some  perplexed 
inquirer,  who  would  draw  him  into  the  nearest  door- 
way, produce  a  crumpled  newspaper  clipping  from  the 
recesses  of  a  waistcoat  pocket,  and,  with  knitted  brows, 
exclaim,  "Here  !  you  think  you  understand  Emerson  ; 
now  tell  me  what  all  this  is  about,  —  //  the  red  slayr 
think  he  slay*,"  and  so  forth.'  (Quoted  in  Scudde'r's 
Life  of  Lowell,  vol.  i,  p.  415.) 

Somewhat  wiser  was  the  little  school-girl  in  the  story 
vouched  for  by  Mr.  E.  W.  Emerson.  She  '  was  bidden 
by  her  teacher  to  learn  some  verses  of  Emerson.  Next 
day  she  recited  "Brahma."  The  astonished  teacher 
asked  why  she  chose  that  poem.  The  child  answered 
that  she  tried  several,  but  could  n't  understand  them 
at  all,  so  learned  this  one,  "  for  it  was  so  easy.  It  just 
•means  '  God  everywhere.'  "  ' 

Lowell  wrote  to  Emerson  after  the  poem  had  appeared 
in  the  first  number  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  of  which 


Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out ; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good  ! 
Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven 
1857. 

ODE 

SUNG  IN  THE  TOWN  HALL,  CONCORD, 

JULY  4,  1857 

O  TENDERLY  the  haughty  day 

Fills  his  blue  urn  with  fire; 
One  morn  is  in  the  mighty  heaven, 

And  one  in  our  desire. 

The  cannon  booms  from  town  to  town, 

Our  pulses  beat  not  less, 
The  joy-bells  chime  their  tidings  down, 

Which  children's  voices  bless. 

For  He  that  flung  the  broad  blue  fold 
O'er-mantling  land  and  sea,  u 

One  third  part  of  the  sky  unrolled 
For  the  banner  of  the  free. 

The  men  are  ripe  of  Saxon  kind 

To  build  an  equal  state,  — 
To  take  the  statute  from  the  mind 

And  make  of  duty  fate. 

Lowell  was  editor  :  '  You  have  seen,  no  doubt,  how  the 
Philistines  have  been  parodying  your  "  Brahma,"  and 
showing  how  they  still  believe  in  their  special  god  Baal, 
and  are  unable  to  arrive  at  a  conception  of  an  omni- 
present Deity.  .  .  .  Let  me  thank  yon  in  especial  for 
one  line  in  '•  Brahma,"  which  abides  with  me  as  an 
intimate  — 

'  When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings. 

You  have  crammed  meaning  there  with  an  hydraulic 
press.'  It  is  this  condensation  of  meaning  which  makes 
the  great  effectiveness  of  the  poem,  and  also  its  diffi- 
culty, if  difficulty  there  be. 

The  direct  source  of  this  particular  expression  of 
Emerson's  idealism  seems  to  be  Krishna's  song  in  the 
Bhagavat-Oita,  which  in  Edwin  Arnold's  translation  is 
as  follows :  — 

He  who  shall  lay, '  Lo  1  I  have  slain  a  man,' 

He  who  shall  think,  •  Lo  !  I  am  slain  ! '  those  both 

Know  naught  1  Life  cannot  slay.  Life  is  not  ilain  ! 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON 


89 


United  States  !  the  ages  plead,  — 
Present  aiid  Past  in  under-song,  — 

Go  put  your  creed  into  your  deed, 

Nor  speak  with  double  tongue.  ac 

For  sea  and  land  don't  understand, 

Nor  skies  without  a  frown 
See  rights  for  which  the  one  hand  fights 

By  the  other  cloven  down. 

Be  just  at  home;  then  write  your  scroll 

Of  honor  o'er  the  sea, 
And  bid  the  broad  Atlantic  roll, 

A  ferry  of  the  free. 

And  henceforth  there  shall  be  no  chain, 
Save  underneath  the  sea  3o 

The  wires  shall  murmur  through  the  main 
Sweet  songs  of  liberty. 

The  conscious  stars  accord  above, 

The  waters  wild  below, 
And  under,  through  the  cable  wove, 

Her  fiery  errands  go. 

For  He  that  worketh  high  and  wise, 

Nor  pauses  in  his  plan, 
Will  take  the  sun  out  of  the  skies 

Ere  freedom  out  of  man. 


SEASHORE* 

I  HEARD  or  seemed  to  hear  the  chiding  Sea 
Say,  Pilgrim,  why  so  late  and  slow  to  come  ? 

1  In  July,  1857,  Mr.  Emerson,  induced  by  Dr.  Bar- 
tol,  took  his  family  to  spend  two  weeks  at  Pigeon  Cove, 
on  Cape  Ann.  The  day  after  our  return  to  Concord,  he 
came  into  our  mother's  room,  where  we  were  all 
sitting,  with  his  journal  in  his  hand,  and  said,  '  I  came 
in  yesterday  from  walking  on  the  rocks  and  wrote  down 
what  the  sea  had  said  to  me ;  and  to-day,  when  I 
open  my  book,  I  find  it  all  reads  as  blank  verse,  with 
scarcely  a  change.' 

Here  is  the  passage  from  that  journal,  as  he  read  it 
to  us  :  July  23.  '  Returned  from  Pigeon  Cove,  where 
we  have  made  acquaintance  with  the  sea,  for  seven 
days.  'T  is  a  noble,  friendly  power,  and  seemed  to  say  to 
me,  Why  so  late  and  slow  to  come  to  me  ?  Am  I  not 
here  always,  thy  proper  summer  home  ?  Is  not  my  voice 
thy  needful  music ;  my  breath  thy  healthful  climate  in 
the  heats ;  my  touch  thy  cure  ?  Was  ever  building  like 
my  terraces  ?  Was  ever  couch  so  magnificent  as  mine? 
Lie  down  on  my  warm  ledges  and  learn  that  a  very 
little  hut  is  all  you  need.  I  have  made  this  architecture 
superfluous,  and  it  is  paltry  beside  mine.  Here  are 
twenty  Romes  and  Niuevehs  and  Karnacs  in  ruins 
together,  obelisk  and  pyramid  and  Giant's  Causeway  ; 
here  they  all  are  prostrate  or  half  piled.  And  behold 
the  sea,  the  opaline,  plentiful  and  strong,  yet  beautiful  as 
the  rose  or  the  rainbow,  full  of  food,  nourisher  of  men, 
purger  of  the  world,  creating  a  sweet  climate  and  in  its 


My  I 

Was 


Am  I  not  always  here,  thy  summer  home  ? 
Is  not  my  voice  thy  music,  morn  and  eve  ? 
My  breath  thy  healthful  climate  in  the  heats, 

touch  thy  antidote,  my  bay  thy  bath  ? 
'as  ever  building  like  my  terraces  ? 
Was  ever  couch  magnificent  as  mine  ? 
Lie  on  the  warm  rock-ledges,  aiid  there  learn 
A  little  hut  suffices  like  a  town.  J0 

I  make  your  sculptured  architecture  vain, 
Vain  beside  mine.  I  drive  my  wedges  home, 
And  carve  the  coastwise  mountain  into  caves. 
Lo  !  here  is  Rome  and  Nineveh  and  Thebes, 
Karnak  and  Pyramid  and  Giant's  Stairs 
Half  piled  or  prostrate;   and   my  newest 

slab 
Older  than  all  thy  race. 

Behold  the  Sea, 

The  opaline,  the  plentiful  and  strong, 
Yet  beautiful  as  is  the  rose  in  June, 
Fresh  as  the  trickling  rainbow  of  July ;     20 
Sea  full  of  food,  the  nourisher  of  kinds, 
Purger  of  earth,  and  medicine  of  men; 
Creating  a  sweet  climate  by  my  breath, 
Washing  out  harms  and  griefs  from  mem- 
ory, 

And,  in  my  mathematic  ebb  and  flow, 
Giving  a  hint  of  that  which  changes  not. 
Rich  are  the  sea-gods :  —  who  gives  gifts 

but  they  ? 
They  grope  the  sea  for  pearls,  but  more 

than  pearls: 
They  pluck  Force  thence,  and  give  it  to  the 

wise. 

For  every  wave  is  wealth  to  Daedalus,  30 
Wealth  to  the  cunning  artist  who  can  work 
This  matchless  strength.  Where  shall  he 

find,  O  waves ! 
j   A  load  your  Atlas  shoulders  cannot  lift  ? 

I  with  my  hammer  pounding  evermore 
The  rocky  coast,  smite  Andes  into  dust, 
Strewing  my  bed,  and,  in  another  age, 
Rebuild  a  continent  of  better  men. 
Then  I  unbar  the  doors:  my  paths  lead  out 
The  exodus  of  nations :  I  disperse 
Men  to  all  shores  that  front  the  hoary  main, 

I  too  have  arts  and  sorceries;  4i 

Illusion  dwells  forever  with  the  wave. 
I  know  what  spells  are  laid.  Leave  me  to 
deal 

unchangeable  ebb  and  flow,  and  in  its  beauty  at  a  few 
furlongs,  giving  a  hint  of  that  which  changes  not,  and 
is  perfect.'  (E.  W.  EMERSON,  in  the  Centenary  Edi- 
tion.) 


go 


CHIEF    AMERICAN    POETS 


With  credulous  and  imaginative  man; 
For,  though  he  scoop  my  water  in  his  palm, 
A  few  rods  off  he  deems  it  gems  and  clouds. 
Planting  strange  fruits  and  sunshine  on  the 

shore, 

I  make  some  coast  alluring,  some  lone  isle, 
To  distant  men,  who  must  go  there,  or  die. 
1857.  1867. 


WALDEINSAMKEIT 

I  DO  not  count  the  hours  I  spend 
In  wandering  by  the  sea; 
The  forest  is  my  loyal  friend, 
Like  God  it  useth  me. 

In  plains  that  room  for  shadows  make 
Of  skirting  hills  to  lie, 
Bound  in  by  streams  which  give  and  take 
Their  colors  from  the  sky ; 

Or  on  the  mountain-crest  sublime, 

Or  down  the  oaken  glade,  10 

O  what  have  I  to  do  with  time  ? 

For  this  the  day  was  made. 

Cities  of  mortals  woe-begone 
Fantastic  care  derides, 
But  in  the  serious  landscape  lone 
Stern  benefit  abides. 

Sheen  will  tarnish,  honey  cloy, 

And  merry  is  only  a  mask  of  sad, 

But,  sober  on  a  fund  of  joy, 

The  woods  at  heart  are  glad.  20 

There  the  great  Planter  plants 
Of  fruitful  worlds  the  grain, 
And  with  a  million  spells  enchants 
The  souls  that  walk  in  pain. 

Still  on  the  seeds  of  all  he  made 

The  rose  of  beauty  burns; 

Through  times  that  wear  and  forms  that 

fade, 
Immortal  youth  returns. 

The  black  ducks  mounting  from  the  lake, 
The  pigeon  in  the  pines,  30 

The  bittern's  boom,  a  desert  make 
Which  no  false  art  refines. 

Down  in  yon  watery  nook, 
Where  bearded  mists  divide, 


The  gray  old  gods  whom  Chaos  knew, 
The  sires  of  Nature,  hide. 

Aloft,  in  secret  veins  of  air, 
Blows  the  sweet  breath  of  song, 
O,  few  to  scale  those  uplands  dare, 
Though  they  to  all  belong  !  40 

See  thou  bring  not  to  field  or  stone 
The  fancies  found  hi  books; 
Leave  authors'  eyes,  and  fetch  your  own, 
To  brave  the  landscape's  looks. 

Oblivion  here  thy  wisdom  is, 
Thy  thrift,  the  sleep  of  cares; 
For  a  proud  idleness  like  this 
Crowns  all  thy  mean  affairs. 
1857.  1858. 


FRAGMENTS    ON    NATURE   AND 
LIFE 

NATURE 

DAILY  the  bending  skies  solicit  man, 
The  seasons  chariot  him  from  this  exile, 
The   rainbow   hours    bedeck    his   glowing 

wheels. 
The   storm-winds  urge   the   heavy   weeks 

along, 

Suns  haste  to  set,  that  so  remoter  lights 
Beckon  the  wanderer  to  his  vaster  home. 


FOR  Nature,  true  and  like  in  every  place, 
Will  hint  her  secret  in  a  garden  patch, 
Or  in  lone  corners  of  a  doleful  heath, 
As  in  the  Andes  watched  by  fleets  at  sea, 
Or  the  sky-piercing  horns  of  Himnmleh; 
And,  when   I  would   recall   the   scenes    i 

dreamed 

On  Adirondac  steeps,  I  know 
Small  need  have  I  of  Turner  or  Dagueric. 
Assured  to  find  the  token  once  again 
In  silver  lakes  that  unexhausted  gleam 
And  peaceful  woods  beside  my  cottage  door. 


BUT  never  yet  the  man  was  found 
Who  could  the  mystery  expound, 
Though  Adam,  born  when  oaks 

young, 
Endured,  the  Bible  says,  as  long; 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON 


But  when  at  last  the  patriarch  died 
The  Gordian  noose  was  still  untied. 
He  left,  though  goodly  centuries  old, 
Meek  Nature's  secret  still  untold. 


ATOM  from  atom  yawns  as  far 

As  moon  from  earth,  or  star  from  star. 


TEACH  me  your  mood,  O  patient  stars  ! 

Who  climb  each  night  the  ancient  sky, 
Leaving  on  space  no  shade,  no  scars, 

No  trace  of  age,  no  fear  to  die. 


LIFE 


THE  sun  athwart  the  cloud  thought  it  no 

sin 
To  use  my  land  to  put  his  rainbows  in. 


DAY  by  day  for  her  darlings  to  her  much 
she  added  more; 

In  her  hundred-gated  Thebes  every  cham- 
ber was  a  door, 

A  door  to  something  grander,  —  loftier 
walls,  and  vaster  floor. 


SHE  paints  with  white  and  red  the  moors 
To  draw  the  nations  out  of  doors. 


NIGHT   IN    JUNE 

I  LEFT  my  dreary  page  and  sallied  forth, 
Received  the  fair  inscriptions  of  the  night; 
The  moon  was  making  amber  of  the  world, 
Glittered  with  silver  every  cottage  pane, 
The   trees   were   rich,   yet    ominous   with 

gloom. 

The  meadows  broad 
From  ferns  and  grapes  and  from  the  folded 

flowers 

Sent  a  nocturnal  fragrance;  harlot  flies 
Flashed  their  small  fires  in  air,  or  held  their 

court 
In  fairy  groves  of  herds-grass. 


BUT  Nature  whistled  with  all  her  winds, 
Did  as  she  pleased  and  went  her  way. 


A  TRAIN  of  gay  and  clouded  days 
Dappled  with  joy  and  grief  and  praise, 
Beauty  to  fire  us,  saints  to  save, 
Escort  us  to  a  little  grave. 


No  fate,  save  by  the  victim's  fault,  is  low, 
For  God  hath  writ  all  dooms  magnificent, 
So  guilt  not  traverses  his  tender  will. 


THIS  shining  moment  is  an  edifice 
Which  the  Omnipotent  cannot  rebuild. 


ROOMY  Eternity 

Casts  her  schemes  rarely, 

And  an  seen  allows 

For  each  quality  and  part 

Of  the  multitudinous 

And  many-chambered  heart. 


BE  of  good  cheer,  brave  spirit;  steadfastly 
Serve  that  low  whisper  thou  hast  served; 

for  know, 

God  hath  a  select  family  of  sons 
Now  scattered  wide  thro'  earth,  and  each 

alone, 

Who  are  thy  spiritual  kindred,  and  each  one 
By  constant  service  to  that  inward  law, 
Is  weaving  the  sublime  proportions 
Of   a   true   monarch's    soul.     Beauty  and 

strength, 

The  riches  of  a  spotless  memory, 
The  eloquence  of  truth,  the  wisdom  got 
By  searching  of  a  clear  and  loving  eye 
That  seeth  as  God  seeth,  —  these  are  their 

gifts  ; 
And  Time,  who  keeps  God's  word,  brings 

on  the  day 
To  seal  the  marriage  of  these  minds  with 

thine, 

Thine  everlasting  lovers.     Ye  shall  be 
The  salt  of  all  the  elements,  world  of  the 

world. 


LOVE 

Asks  nought  his  brother  cannot  give; 
Asks  nothing,  but  does  all  receive. 
Love  call?  not  to  his  aid  events; 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


He  to  his  wants  can  well  suffice: 
Asks  not  of  others  soft  consents, 
Nor  kind  occasion  without  eyes; 
Nor  plots  to  ope  or  bolt  a  gate, 
Nor  heeds  Condition's  iron  walls,  — 
Where  he  goes,  goes  before  him  Fate; 
Whom  he  uniteth,  God  installs; 
Instant  and  perfect  his  access 
To  the  dear  object  of  his  thought, 
Though  foes  and  land  and  seas  between 
Himself  and  his  love  intervene. 


TELL  men  what  they  knew  before ; 
Paint  the  prospect  from  their  door. 


HIM  strong  Genius  urged  to  roam, 
Stronger  Custom  brought  him  home. 


THAT  each  should  in  his  house  abide, 
Therefore  was  the  world  so  wide.1 


YES,  sometimes  to  the  sorrow-stricken 
Shall  his  own  sorrow  seem  impertinent, 
A  thing  that  takes  no  more  root  in  the  world 
Than  doth  the  traveller's  shadow  on  the 
rock. 


THE  bard  and  mystic  held  me  for  their  own, 
I  filled  the  dream  of  sad,  poetic  maids, 
I  took  the  friendly  noble  by  the  hand, 
I  was  the  trustee  of  the  hand-cart  man, 
The  brother  of  the  fisher,  porter,  swain, 
And   these  from   the    crowd's    edge   well 

pleased  beheld 
The  service  done  to  me  as  done  to  them. 


SHUN  passion,  fold  the  hands  of  thrift, 

Sit  still,  and  Truth  is  near  : 
Suddenly  it  will  uplift 

Your  eyelids  to  the  sphere  : 

1  A  common  thought  with  Emerson  (see  '  Written 
in  Naples,'  '  Written  at  Rome,'  '  The  Day's  Ration,' 
and  the  essay  '  Self-Reliance '),  but,  as  here  expressed, 
evidently  meant  for  a  direct  answer  to  the  last  words 
of  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meisler,  so  often  quoted  by  Car- 
lyle:- 

To  give  space  for  wandering  is  it 
That  the  world  was  made  so  wide. 


Wait  a  little,  you  shall  see 
The  portraiture  of  things  to  be. 


OH,  what  is  Heaven  but  the  fellowship 
Of  minds  that  each  can  stand  against  the 

world 
By  its  own  meek  and  incorruptible  will  ? 


ON  bravely  through  the  sunshine  and  the 

showers! 

Time  hath  his  work  to  do  and  we  have  ours. 
1830-60.  1883. 


FRAGMENTS  ON  THE  POET  AND 
THE  POETIC  GIFT 

THE  gods  talk  in  the  breath  of  the  woods, 

They  talk  in  the  shaken  pine, 

And  fill  the  long  reach  of  the  old  seashore 

With  dialogue  divine; 

And  the  poet  who  overhears 

Some  random  word  they  say 

Is  the  fated  man  of  men 

Whom  the  ages  must  obey. 


THE  sun  set,  but  set  not  his  hope  :  — 
Stars  rose,  his  faith  was  earlier  up  : 
Fixed  on  the  enormous  galaxy, 
Deeper  and  older  seemed  his  eye, 
And  matched  his  sufferance  sublime 
The  taciturnity  of  Time.2 
He  spoke,  and  words  more  soft  than  rain 
Brought  the  Age  of  Gold  again: 
His  action  won  such  reverence  sweet 
As  hid  all  measiire  of  the  feat. 


THE  Dervish  whined  to  Said, 

'  Thou  didst  not  tarry  while  I  prayed. 

Beware  the  fire  that  Eblis  burned.' 

But  Saadi  coldly  thus  returned, 

'  Once  with  manlike  love  and  fear 

I  gave  thee  for  an  hour  my  ear, 

I  kept  the  sun  and  stars  at  bay, 

And  love,  for  words  thy  tongue  could  say. 

I  cannot  sell  my  heaven  again 

For  all  that  rattles  in  thy  brain.' 


2  The  first  six  lines  were  originally  written  as  part  of 
'  The  Poet,'  but  were  first  printed,  with  the  four  follow- 
ing, as  motto  to  the  essay  on  '  Character'. 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


93 


THE  free  winds  told  him  what  they  knew, 

Discoursed  of  fortune  as  they  blew ; 

Omens  and  signs  that  filled  the  air 

To  him  authentic  witness  bare; 

The  birds  brought  auguries  on  their  wings, 

And  carolled  undeceiving  things 

Him  to  beckon,  him  to  warn; 

Well  might  then  the  poet  scorn 

To  learn  of  scribe  or  courier 

Things  writ  in  vaster  character; 

And  on  his  mind  at  dawn  of  day 

Soft  shadows  of  the  evening  lay. 


PALE  genius  roves  alone, 
No  scout  can  track  his  way, 
None  credits  him  till  he  have  shown 
His  diamonds  to  the  day. 

Not  his  the  feaster's  wine, 
Nor  land,  nor  gold,  nor  power, 
By  want  and  pain  God  screeneth  him 
Till  his  elected  hour. 

Go,  speed  the  stars  of  Thought 
On  to  their  shining  goals:  — 
The  sower  scatters  broad  his  seed, 
The  wheat  thou  strew'st  be  souls. 


FOR  thought,  and  not  praise ; 

Thought  is  the  wages 

For  which  I  sell  days, 

Will  gladly  sell  ages 

And  willing  grow  old 

Deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind,  and  cold, 

Melting  matter  into  dreams, 

Panoramas  which  I  saw 

And  whatever  glows  or  seems 

Into  substance,  into  Law. 


A  DULL  uncertain  brain, 

But  gifted  yet  to  know 

That  God  has  cherubim  who  go 

Singing  an  immortal  strain, 

Immortal  here  below. 

I  know  the  mighty  bards, 

I  listen  when  they  sing, 

And  now  I  know 

The  secret  store 

Which  these  explore 

When  they  with  torch  of  genius  pierce 

The  tenfold  clouds  that  cover 


The  riches  of  the  universe 

From  God's  adoring  lover. 

And  if  to  me  it  is  not  given 

To  fetch  one  ingot  thence 

Of  the  unfading  gold  of  Heaven 

His  merchants  may  dispense, 

Yet  well  I  know  the  royal  mine, 

And  know  the  sparkle  of  its  ore, 

Know   Heaven's   truth    from    lies  that 

shine  — 
Explored  they  teach  us  to  explore. 


FOR  Fancy's  gift 

Can  mountains  lift; 

The  Muse  can  knit 

What  is  past,  what  is  done, 

With  the  web  that 's  just  begun; 

Making  free  with  time  and  size, 

Dwindles  here,  there  magnifies, 

Swells  a  rain-drop  to  a  tun; 

So  to  repeat 

No  word  or  feat 

Crowds  in  a  day  the  sum  of  ages, 

And  blushing  Love  outwits  the  sages. 


TRY  the  might  the  Muse  affords 
And  the  balm  of  thoughtful  words; 
Bring  music  to  the  desolate; 
Hang  roses  on  the  stony  fate. 


AND  as  the  light  divides  the  dark 
Through  with  living  swords, 

So  shalt  thou  pierce  the  distant  age 
With  adamantine  words. 


I  FRAMED  his  tongue  to  music, 
I  armed  his  hand  with  skill, 

I  moulded  his  face  to  beauty 

And  his  heart  the  throne  of  Will. 


THAT  book  is  good 
Which  puts  me  in  a  working  mood.1 
Unless  to  Thought  is  added  Will, 
Apollo  is  an  imbecile. 

1  Compare  the  essay  '  Inspiration  :  '  '  Every  book  is 
good  to  read  which  sets  the  reader  in  a  working  mood.' 
.  .  .  '  Fact-books,  if  the  facts  be  well  and  thoroughly 
told,  are  much  more  nearly  allied  to  poetry  than  manj 
books  that  are  written  in  rhyme.' 


94 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


What  parts,  what  gems,  what  colors  shine,  — 
Ah,  but  I  miss  the  grand  design. 


FOR  what  need  I  of  book  or  priest, 
Or  sibyl  from  the  mummied  East, 
When  every  star  is  Bethlehem  star  ? 
I  count  as  many  as  there  are 
Cinquefoils  or  violets  in  the  grass, 
So  many  saints  and  saviors, 
So  many  high  behaviors 
Salute  the  bard  who  is  alive 
And  only  sees  what  he  doth  give. 


COIN  the  day-dawn  into  lines 
In  which  its  proper  splendor  shines; 
Coin  the  moonlight  into  verse 
Which  all  its  marvel  shall  rehearse, 

Chasing  with  words  fast-flowing  things; 

nor  try 

To  plant  thy  shrivelled  pedantry 
On  the  shoulders  of  the  sky. 


His  instant  thought  a  poet  spoke, 
And  filled  the  age  his  fame; 
An  inch  of  ground  the  lightning  strook 
But  lit  the  sky  with  flame.1 


QUATRAINS   AND   TRANSLA- 
TIONS 


EVER  the  Poet  from  the  land 
Steers  his  bark  and  trims  his  sail; 
Right  out  to  sea  his  courses  stand, 
New  worlds  to  find  in  pinnace  frail. 


To  clothe  the  fiery  thought 
In  simple  words  succeeds, 
For  still  the  craft  of  genius  is 
To  mask  a  king  in  weeds.2 

1  Compare  Emerson's  '  Address  at  the  Hundredth 
Anniversary  of  the   Concord  Fight : '    '  The  thunder- 
bolt falls  on  an  inch  of  ground,  but  the  light  of  it  fills 
the  horizon.' 

2  Compare  the  essay  on  '  Beauty,'  in  The  Conduct  of 
Life  :  '  This  art  of  omission  is  a  chief  secret  Of  power, 
and,  in  general,  it  is  a  proof  of  high  culture  to  say  the 
greatest  matters  in  the  simplest  way.' 


Go  thou  to  thy  learned  task, 
I  stay  with  the  flowers  of  Spring: 
Do  thou  of  the  Ages  ask 
What  me  the  Hours  will  bring. 

GARDENER 

TRUE  Brahmin,  in  the  morning  meadows 

wet, 

Expound  the  Vedas  of  the  violet, 
Or,  hid  in  vines,  peeping  through  many  a 

See  the  plum  redden,  and  the  beurre'  stoop.£ 

NORTHMAN 

THE  gale  that  wrecked  you  on  the  sand. 
It  helped  my  rowers  to  row; 
The  storm  is  my  best  galley  hand 
And  drives  me  where  I  go. 

FROM   ALCUIN 

THE  sea  is  the  road  of  the  bold, 
Frontier  of  the  wheat-sown  plains, 
The  pit  wherein  the  streams  are  rolled 
And  fountain  of  the  rams. 

EXCELSIOR 

OVER  his  head  were  the  maple  buds, 
And  over  the  tree  was  the  moon, 
And  over  the  moon  were  the  starry  studs 
That  drop  from  the  angels'  shoon. 
(May  7,  1838.) 

BORROWING 
(FROM  THE  FRENCH) 

SOME  of  your  hurts  you  have  cured, 
And  the  sharpest  you  still  have  survived, 
'   But  what  torments  of  grief  you  endured 
From  evils  which  never  arrived  ! 


BOON  Nature  yields  each  day  a  brag  which 

we  now  first  behold, 
And  trains  us  on  to  slight  the  new,  as  if  it 

were  the  old: 


8  Go  to  the  forest,  if  God  has  made  thee  a  poet,  and 
make  thy  life  clean  and  fragrant  as  thy  office. 

Tme  Brahmin,  in  the  morning:  meadows  wet. 
Expound  the  Vedas  in  the  violet. 

Thy  love  must  be  thy  art.  ...  Nature  also  must  teach 
thee  rhetoric.  She  can  teach  thee  not  only  to  speak 
truth,  but  to  speak  it  truly.  (Journal,  July,  1840.) 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


95 


But  blest  is  he,  who,  playing  deep,  yet  haply 

asks  not  why, 
Too  busied  with  the  crowded  hour  to  fear 

to  live  or  die. 

NATURE   IN   LEASTS 

As  sings  the  pine-tree  in  the  wind, 
So  sings  in  the  wind  a  sprig  of  the  pine; 
Her  strength  and  soul  has  laughing  France 
Shed  in  each  drop  of  wine. 

CLIMACTERIC 

I  AM  not  wiser  for  my  age, 

Nor  skilful  by  my  grief; 

Life  loiters  at  the  book's  first  page,  — 

Ah  !  could  we  turn  the  leaf. 

HERI,    CRAS,   HODIE 

SHINES  the  last  age,  the  next  with  hope  is 

seen, 

To-day  slinks  poorly  off  unmarked  between : 
Future  or  Past  no  richer  secret  folds, 
O  friendless  Present !  than  thy  bosom  holds. 


THOUGH  love  repine,  and  reason  chafe, 
There  came  a  voice  without  reply,  — 
'  'T  is  man's  perdition  to  be  safe, 
When  for  the  truth  he  ought  to  die.'  * 


TEST  of  the  poet  is  knowledge  of  love, 
For  Eros  is  older  than  Saturn  or  Jove ; 
Never  was  poet,  of  late  or  of  yore, 
Who  was  not  tremulous  with  love-lore. 

1  This  quatrain  was  chosen  by  James  Russell  Lowell 
to  be  inscribed  on  the  simple  monument  at  Soldiers' 
Field  in  Cambridge,  which  was  given  as  an  athletic 
ground  by  Col.  Henry  Lee  Higginson,  in  memory  of  his 
classmates  and  friends,  Charles  Russell  Lowell,  James 
Jackson  Lowell,  Robert  Gould  Shaw,  James  Savage,  Jr., 
Edward  Barry  Dalton,  and  Stephen  George   Perkins, 
who  died  in  the  war  or  soon  after. 

Compare  Emerson's  two  addresses  referred  to  in  the 
note  on  '  Voluntaries. '  The  best  commentary,  how- 
ever, is  Colonel  Higginson's  story  of  the  lives  and 
deaths  of  his  comrades,  in  his  addresses  on  the  presen- 
tation of  Soldiers'  Field,  1890,  and  on  Robert  Gould 
Shaw,  1897  (Four  Addresses,  Boston,  1902.) 

2  A  famous  singer  of  Florence.  Dante  tells  of  meet- 
ing him  (Purgatory,  Canto  n,  lines  76-133)  and  beg- 
ging him  to  sing  :    '  If  a  new  law  take  not  from  thee 
memory  or  practice  of  the  song  of  love  which  was  wont 
to  quiet  all  my  longings,  may  it  please  thee  therewith 
somewhat  to  comfort  my  soul.'  (Norton's  Translation.) 
Casella  then  sings  Dante's  Amor  che  nella  mente  mi 
ragiona  ('  Love,  that  within  my  mind  discourses  with 
me '),  '  so  sweetly,  that  the  sweetness  still  within  m« 
sounds.   My  Master,  and  I,  and  the  folk  who  were  with 


SHAKSPEARE 


I  SEE  all  human  wits 
Are  measured  but  a  few; 
Unmeasured  still  my  Shakspeare  sits. 
Lone  as  the  blessed  Jew. 


HER  passions  the  shy  violet 
From  Hafiz  never  hides; 
Love-longings  of  the  raptured  bird 
The  bird  to  him  confides. 

AAAKPTN   NEMONTAI    AIQNA 

'A  NEW  commandment,'  said  the  smiling 

Muse, 
'I  give  my  darling  son,  Thou  shalt  not 

preach';  — 
Luther,  Fox,  Behmen,  Swedenborg,  grew 

pale, 

And,  on  the  instant,  rosier  clouds  upbore 
Hafiz  and  Shakspeare  with  their  shining 
choirs. 

FRIENDSHIP 

THOU  foolish  Hafiz!  Say,  do  churls 
Know  the  worth  of  Oman's  pearls  ? 
Give  the  gem  which  dims  the  moon 
To  the  noblest,  or  to  none. 


ON  prince  or  bride  no  diamond  stone 
Half  so  gracious  ever  shone, 
As  the  light  of  enterprise 
Beaming  from  a  young  man's  eyes. 


UNBAR  the  door,  since  thou  the  Opener  art, 
Show  me  the  forward  way,  since  thou  art 

guide, 

I  put  no  faith  in  pilot  or  in  chart, 
Since   they  are   transient,   and   thou   dost 


IF  Thought  unlock  her  mysteries, 
If  Friendship  on  me  smile, 

I  walk  in  marble  galleries, 
I  talk  with  kings  the  while. 

1850-60  ?  188a 

him,  appeared  so  content  as  if  naught  else  could  touch 
the  mind  of  any.' 

Milton  speaks  of  Casella  in  his  '  Sonnet  to  Mr.  Henry 
Law  es : ' — 

Dante  shall  give  Fame  leave  to  set  thee  higher 

Than  his  Casella,  whom  he  wooed  to  sing, 

Met  in  the  milder  shades  of  Purgatory. 


96 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


THE  BOHEMIAN  HYMN1 

IN  many  forms  we  try 

To  utter  God's  infinity, 

But  the  boundless  hath  no  form, 

And  the  Universal  Friend 

Doth  as  far  transcend 

An  angel  as  a  worm. 

The  great  Idea  baffles  wit 
Language  falters  under  it, 
It  leaves  the  learned  in  the  lurch; 
Nor  art,  nor  power,  nor  toil  can  find 
The  measure  of  the  eternal  Mind, 
Nor  hymn,  nor  prayer,  nor  church. 


PAN 

O  WHAT  are  heroes,  prophets,  men, 

But  pipes  through  which  the  breath  of  Pan 

doth  blow 

A  momentary  music.     Being's  tide 
Swells  hitherward,  and  myriads  of  forms 
Live,  robed  with  beauty,   painted   by  the 

sun; 

Their  dust,  pervaded  by  the  nerves  of  God, 
Throbs  with  an  overmastering  energy 
Knowing  and  doing.     Ebbs  the  tide,  they 

lie 

White  hollow  shells  upon  the  desert  shore, 
But  not  the  less  the  eternal  wave  rolls  on 
To  animate  new  millions,  and  exhale 
Races  and  planets,  its  enchanted  foam.2 

1883. 

THE   ENCHANTER 

IN  the  deep  heart  of  man  a  poet  dwells 
Who  all  the  day  of  life  his  summer  story 

tells; 

Scatters  on  every  eye  dust  of  his  spells, 
Scent,  form  and  color;  to  the  flowers  and 

shells 
Wins  the   believing   child  with  wondrous 

tales; 

Touches  a  cheek  with  colors  of  romance, 
And  crowds  a  history  into  a  glance; 

1  Compare  the  essay  on   '  Plato  : '     '  Plato    appre- 
hended the  cardinal  facts.   He  could  prostrate  himself 
on  the  earth  and  cover  his  eyes  whilst  he  adored  that 
which  cannot  be  numbered,  or  gauged,  or  known,  or 
named  ...  He  even  stood  ready,  as  in  the  Parmen- 
ides,  to  demonstrate  .  .  .  that  this  Being  exceeded  the 
limits  of  intellect.    No  man  ever  more  fully  acknow- 
ledged the  Ineffable.' 

2  Compare  Bryant's  '  Flood  of  Years.' 


Gives  beauty  to  the  lake  and  fountain, 
Spies  oversea  the  fires  of  the  mountain; 
When  thrushes  ope  their  throat,  'tis  he 

that  sings, 

And  he  that  paints  the  oriole's  fiery  wings. 
The  little  Shakspeare  in  the  maiden's 

heart 

Makes  Romeo  of  a  plough-boy  on  his  cart; 
Opens  the  eye  to  Virtue's  starlike  meed 
And  gives  persuasion  to  a  gentle  deed. 

1883. 

EROS 

THEY  put  their  finger  on  their  lip, 
The  Powers  above: 

The  seas  their  islands  clip, 

The  moons  in  ocean  dip, 
They  love,  but  name  not  love. 


1883. 


MUSIC3 


LET  me  go  where'er  I  will, 

I  hear  a  sky-born  music  still: 

It  sounds  from  all  things  old, 

It  sounds  from  all  things  young, 

From  all  that  'sfair,  from  all  that 's  foul, 

Peals  out  a  cheerful  song. 

It  is  not  only  in  the  rose, 

It  is  not  only  in  the  bird, 

Not  only  where  the  rainbow  glows, 

Nor  hi  the  song  of  woman  heard, 

But  in  the  darkest,  meanest  things 

There  alway,  alway  something  sings. 

'T  is  not  in  the  high  stars  alone, 
Nor  in  the  cup  of  budding  flowers, 
Nor  in  the  redbreast's  mellow  tone, 
Nor  in  the  bow  that  smiles  in  showers, 
But  in  the  mud  and  scum  of  things 
There  alway,  alway  something  sings. 

1883. 

THE   TITMOUSE4 

You  shall  not  be  overbold 
When  you  deal  with  arctic  cold, 

a  In  1883  this  poem  was  printed  among  the  '  Frag- 
ments on  Nature  and  Life,'  in  an  Appendix.  It  first 
appears  as  a  separate  poem,  with  title,  in  the  Centenary 
Edition  of  1904. 

*  The  snow  still  lies  even  with  the  tops  of  the  walls 
across  the  Walden  road,  and,  this  afternoon,  I  waded 
through  the  woods  to  my  grove.  A  chickadee  came 
out  to  greet  me,  flew  about  within  reach  of  my  hands. 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


97 


As  late  I  found  my  lukewarm  blood 
Chilled  wading  in  the  snow-choked  wood. 
How  should  I  fight  ?  my  f oeman  fine 
Has  million  arms  to  one  of  mine : 
East,  west,  for  aid  I  looked  in  vain, 
East,  west,  north,  south,  are  his  domain. 
Miles  off,  three  dangerous  miles,  is  home; 
Must  borrow  his  winds  who  there  would 
come.  10 

Up  and  away  for  life  !  be  fleet !  — 
The  frost-king  ties  my  fumbling  feet, 
Sings  in  my  ears,  my  hands  are  stones, 
Curdles  the  blood  to  the  marble  bones, 
Tugs  at  the  heart-strings,  numbs  the  sense, 
And  hems  in  life  with  narrowing  fence. 
Well,  in  this  broad  bed  lie  and  sleep,  — 
The  punctual  stars  will  vigil  keep,  — 
Embalmed  by  purifying  cold; 
The  winds  shall  sing  their  dead-march  old,  20 
The  snow  is  no  ignoble  shroud, 
The  moon  thy  mourner,  and  the  cloud. 

Softly,  —  but  this  way  fate  was  pointing, 
'T  was  coming  fast  to  such  anointing, 
When  piped  a  tiny  voice  hard  by, 
Gay  and  polite,  a  cheerful  cry, 
Chic-chic-a-dee-dee  !  saucy  note 
Out  of  sound  heart  and  merry  throat, 
As  if  it  said,  '  Good  day,  good  sir  ! 
Fine  afternoon,  old  passenger  !  30 

Happy  to  meet  you  in  these  places, 
Where  January  brings  few  faces.' 

This  poet,  though  he  live  apart, 
Moved  by  his  hospitable  heart, 
Sped,  when  I  passed  his  sylvan  fort, 
To  do  the  honors  of  his  court, 
As  fits  a  feathered  lord  of  land; 
Flew   near,  with    soft    wing    grazed    my 
hand, 

perched  on  the  nearest  bough,  flew  down  into  the  snow, 
rested  there  two  seconds,  then  up  again  just  over  my 
head,  and  busied  himself  on  the  dead  bark.  I  whis- 
tled to  him  through  my  teeth,  and  (I  think,  in  re- 
sponse) he  began  at  once  to  whistle.  I  promised  him 
crumbs,  and  must  not  go  again  to  these  woods  without 
them.  I  suppose  the  best  food  to  carry  would  be  the 
meat  of  shagbarks  or  Castile  nuts.  Thoreau  tells  me 
that  they  are  very  sociable  with  wood-choppers,  and 
will  take  «rumbs  from  their  hands.  (Journal,  March 
3,  1862.) 

Compare  Holmes's  characteristic  comment  on  this 
poem,  in  bis  Pages  from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life :  '  The 
moral  of  the  poem  is  as  heroic  as  the  verse  is  exquisite  ; 
but  we  must  not  forget  the  non-conducting  quality  of 
fur  and  feathers,  and  remember,  if  we  are  at  all  deli- 
cate, to  go 

Wrapped  in  our  virtue,  and  a  good  surtout, 
by  way  of  additional  security.' 


Hopped  on  the  bough,  then,  darting  low, 
Prints  his  small  impress  on  the  snow,        4c 
Shows  feats  of  his  gymnastic  play, 
Head  downward,  clinging  to  the  spray. 

Here  was  this  atom  in  full  breath, 
Hurling  defiance  at  vast  death ; 
This  scrap  of  valor  just  for  play 
Fronts  the  north-wind  in  waistcoat  gray, 
As  if  to  shame  my  weak  behavior; 
I  greeted  loud  my  little  savior, 
'  You  pet !  what  dost  here  ?  and  what  for  ? 
In  these  woods,  thy  small  Labrador,          50 
At  this  pinch,  wee  San  Salvador  ! 
What  fire  burns  in  that  little  chest 
So  frolic,  stout  and  self-ppssest  ? 
Henceforth  I  wear  no  stripe  but  thine; 
Ashes  and  jet  all  hues  outshine. 
Why  are  not  diamonds  black  and  gray, 
To  ape  thy  dare-devil  array  ? 
And  I  affirm,  the  spacious  North 
Exists  to  draw  thy  virtue  forth. 
I  think  no  virtue  goes  with  size ;  60 

The  reason  of  all  cowardice 
Is,  that  men  are  overgrown, 
And,  to  be  valiant,  must  come  down 
To  the  titmouse  dimension.' 

'T  is  good  will  makes  intelligence, 
And  I  began  to  catch  the  sense 
Of  my  bird's  song:  '  Live  out  of  doors 
In  the  great  woods,  on  prairie  floors. 
I  dine  in  the  sun;  when  he  sinks  in  the  sea, 
I  too  have  a  hole  in  a  hollow  tree;  70 

And  I  like  less  when  Summer  beats 
With  stifling  beams  on  these  retreats, 
Than  noontide  twilights  which  snow  makes 


With  tempest  of  the  blinding  flak 
For  well  the  soul,  if  stout  within, 
Can  arm  impregnably  the  skin ; 
And  polar  frost  my  frame  defied, 
Made  of  the  air  that  blows  outside.' 

With  glad  remembrance  of  my  debt, 
I  homeward  turn ;  farewell,  my  pet !         go 
When  here  again  thy  pilgrim  comes, 
He  shall  bring  store  of  seeds  and  crumbs. 
Doubt  not,  so  long  as  earth  has  bread, 
Thou  first  and  foremost  shalt  be  fed; 
The  Providence  that  is  most  large 
Takes  hearts  like  thine  in  special  charge, 
Helps  who  for  their  own  need  are  strong, 
And  the  sky  doats  on  cheerful  song. 
Henceforth  I  prize  thy  wiry  chant 
O'er  all  that  mass  and  minster  vaunt;       90 


9S 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


For  men  mis-hear  thy  call  in  Spring, 
As  't  would  accost  some  frivolous  wing, 
Crying  out  of  the  hazel  copse,  Phe-be  ! 
And,  in  winter,  Chic-a-dee-dee  ! 
I  think  old  Caesar  must  have  heard 
In  northern  Gaul  my  dauntless  bird, 
And,  echoed  in  some  frosty  wold, 
Borrowed  thy  battle-numbers  bold. 
And  I  will  write  our  annals  new, 
And  thank  thee  for  a  better  clew,         100 
I,  who  dreamed  not  when  I  came  here 
To  find  the  antidote  of  fear, 
Now  hear  thee  say  in  Roman  key, 
Pcean  !    Veni,  vidi,  vici. 
1862.  1862. 

BOSTON   HYMN 

READ   IN  MUSIC   HALL,  JANUARY  I,  1863! 

THE  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 
As  they  sat  by  the  seaside, 
And  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 

God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings, 
I  suffer  them  no  more; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 
A  field  of  havoc  and  war,  10 

Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 
Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor  ? 

My  angel,  —  his  name  is  Freedom, — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king; 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west 
And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo  !  I  uncover  the  land 
Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  the  statue 
When  he  has  wrought  his  best;  2o 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  m  the  seas 
And  soar  to  the  air-borne  flocks 
Of  clouds  and  the  boreal  fleece. 


I  will  divide  my  goods; 
Call  in  the  wretch  and  i 


and  slave: 

1  The  day  when  the  Emancipation  Proclamation  went 
into  effect.  The  Proclamation  was  issued  on  September 
22,1862. 


None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 
And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble, 
No  lineage  counted  great;  3C 

Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 
Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs; 
Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 
The  young  men  and  the  sires, 
The  digger  in  the  harvest-field, 
Hireling  and  him  that  hires;  40 

And  here  in  a  pine  state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 
In  every  needful  faculty, 
In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now  !  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea 
And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun, 
As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men; 
'T  is  nobleness  to  serve ;  5o 

Help  them  who  cannot  help  again: 
Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 
And  I  unchain  the  slave: 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth 
As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 

His  proper  good  to  flow : 

As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 

So  much  he  shall  bestow.  6 

But,  laying  hands  on  another 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 
He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive, 
So  only  are  ye  unbound; 
Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust, 
Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound  ! 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner 

And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim.  7° 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON 


99 


Who  is  the  owner  ?    The  slave  is  owner, 
And  ever  was.   Pay  him. 

O  North  !  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  O  South  !  for  his  shame; 
Nevada  !  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up  !  and  the  dusky  race 

That  sat  in  darkness  long,  — 

Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 

And  as  behemoth  strong.  80 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 
By  races,  as  snow-flakes, 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth, 
Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be, 
For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 


VOLUNTARIES 

I 

Low  and  mournful  be  the  strain, 
Haughty  thought  be  far  from  me; 
Tones  of  penitence  and  pain, 
Moanings  of  the  tropic  sea; 
Low  and  tender  in  the  cell 
Where  a  captive  sits  in  chains, 
Crooning  ditties  treasured  well 
From  his  Afric's  torrid  plains. 
Sole  estate  his  sire  bequeathed,  — 
Hapless  sire  to  hapless  son,  —  to 

Was  the  wailing  song  he  breathed, 
And  his  chain  when  life  was  done. 

What  his  fault,  or  what  his  crime  ? 
Or  what  ill  planet  crossed  his  prime  ? 
Heart  too  soft  and  will  too  weak 
To  front  the  fate  that  crouches  near,  — 
Dove  beneath  the  vulture's  beak  ;  — 
Will  song  dissuade  the  thirsty  spear  ? 
Dragged    from    his    mother's    arms    and 

breast, 

Displaced,  disfurnished  here,  20 

His  wistful  toil  to  do  his  best 
Chilled  by  a  ribald  jeer. 

Great  men  in  the  Senate  sate, 
Sage  and  hero,  side  by  side, 


Building  for  their  sons  the  State, 

Which  they  shall  rule  with  pride. 

They  forbore  to  break  the  chain 

Which  bound  the  dusky  tribe, 

Checked  by  the  owners'  fierce  disdain, 

Lured  by  '  Union  '  as  the  bribe.  30 

Destiny  sat  by,  and  said, 

'  Pang  for  pang  your  seed  shall  pay, 

Hide  in  false  peace  your  coward  head, 

I  bring  round  the  harvest  day.' 


FREEDOM  all  winged  expands, 
Nor  perches  in  a  narrow  place ; 
Her  broad  van  seeks  implanted  lands; 
She  loves  a  poor  and  virtuous  race. 
Clinging  to  a  colder  zone 
Whose    dark     sky    sheds    the    snowflake 
down,  40 

The  snowflake  is  her  banner's  star, 
Her  stripes  the  boreal  streamers  are. 
Long  she  loved  the  Northman  well; 
Now  the  iron  age  is  done, 
She  will  not  refuse  to  dwell 
With  the  offspring  of  the  Sun; 
Foundling  of  the  desert  far, 
Where  palms  plume,  siroccos  blaze, 
He  roves  unhurt  the  burning  ways 
In  climates  of  the  summer  star.  50 

He  has  avenues  to  God 
Hid  from  men  of  Northern  brain, 
Far  beholding,  without  cloud, 
What  these  with  slowest  steps  attain. 
If  once  the  generous  chief  arrive 
To  lead  him  willing  to  be  led,     . 
For  freedom  he  will  strike  and  strive, 
And  drain  his  heart  till  he  be  dead. 

Ill 

IN  an  age  of  fops  and  toys, 

Wanting  wisdom,  void  of  right,  6a 

Who  shall  nerve  heroic  boys 

To  hazard  all  in  Freedom's  fight,  — 

Break  sharply  off  their  jolly  games, 

Forsake  their  comrades  gay 

And  quit  proud  homes  and  youthful  dames 

For  famine,  toil  and  fray  ? 

Yet  on  the  nimble  air  benign 

Speed  nimbler  messages, 

That  waft  the  breath  of  grace  divine 

To  hearts  in  sloth  and  ease.  7o 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


When  Duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must, 
The  youth  replies,  /  can.1 

IV 

OH,  well  for  the  fortunate  soul 

Which  Music's  wings  infold, 

Stealing  away  the  memory 

Of  sorrows  new  and  old  ! 

Yet  happier  he  whose  inward  sight, 

Stayed  on  his  subtile  thought,  go 

Shuts  his  sense  on  toys  of  time, 

To  vacant  bosoms  brought. 

But  best  befriended  of  the  God 

He  who,  in  evil  times, 

Warned  by  an  inward  voice, 

Heeds  not  the  darkness  and  the  dread, 

Biding  by  his  rule  and  choice, 

Feeling  only  the  fiery  thread 

Leading  over  heroic  ground, 

Walled  with  mortal  terror  round,  90 

To  the  aim  which  him  allures, 

And  the  sweet  heaven  his  deed  secures. 

Peril  around,  all  else  appalling, 

Cannon  in  front  and  leaden  rain 

Him  duty  through  the  clarion  calling 

To  the  van  called  not  in  vain. 

Stainless  soldier  on  the  walls, 
Knowing  this,  —  and  knows  no  more,  — 
Whoever  fights,  whoever  falls, 
Justice  conquers  evermore,  100 

Justice  after  as  before,  — 
And  he  who  battles  on  her  side, 
God,  though  he  were  ten  times  slain, 
Crowns  him  victor  glorified, 
Victor  over  death  and  pain. 


BLOOMS  the  laurel  which  belongs 
To  the  valiant  chief  who  fights; 
I  see  the  wreath,  I  hear  the  songs 
Lauding  the  Eternal  Rights, 
Victors  over  daily  wrongs  : 
Awful  victors,  they  misguide 
Whom  they  will  destroy, 
And  their  coming  triumph  hide 
In  our  downfall,  or  our  joy : 


1  These  lines,  a  moment  after  they  were  written, 
seemed  as  if  they  had  been  carved  on  marble  for  a 
tkousand  years.  (HOLMES,  Life  of  Emerson.) 

Compare  Emerson's  '  Address  at  the  Dedication  of 
the  Soldiers'  Monument  in  Concord,'  especially  the 
paragraph  beginning :  '  All  sorts  of  men  went  to  the 
war ; '  and  his  '  Harvard  Commemoration  Speech,  July 
21, 1865.' 


They  reach  no  term,  they  never  sleep, 
In  equal  strength  through  space  abide; 
Though,  feigning  dwarfs,  they  crouch  and 

creep, 

The  strong  they  slay,  the  swift  outstride  : 
Fate's  grass  grows  rank  in  valley  clods, 
And  rankly  on  the  castled  steep,  —  120 

Speak  it  firmly,  these  are  gods, 
All  are  ghosts  beside. 

1863. 

MY   GARDEN2 

IF  I  could  put  my  woods  in  song 
And  tell  what 's  there  enjoyed, 
All  men  would  to  my  gardens  throng, 
And  leave  the  cities  void. 

In  my  plot  no  tulips  blow,  — 
Snow-loving  pines  and  oaks  instead; 
And  rank  the  savage  maples  grow 
From  Spring's  faint  flush  to  Autumn  red. 

My  garden  is  a  forest  ledge 
Which  older  forests  bound;  10 

The  banks  slope  down  to  the  blue  lake- 
edge, 
Then  plunge  to  depths  profound. 

Here  once  the  Deluge  ploughed, 
Laid  the  terraces,  one  by  one; 
Ebbing  later  whence  it  flowed, 
They  bleach  and  dry  in  the  sun. 

The  sowers  make  haste  to  depart,  — 
The  wind  and  the  birds  which  sowed  it; 
Not  for  fame,  nor  by  rules  of  art, 
Planted  these,  and  tempests  flowed  it.       20 

Waters  that  wash  my  garden-side 
Play  not  in  Nature's  lawful  web, 
They  heed  not  moon  or  solar  tide,  — 
Five  years  elapse  from  flood  to  ebb. 

Hither  hasted,  in  old  time,  Jove, 
And  every  god,  —  none  did  refuse ; 
And  be  sure  at  last  came  Love, 
And  after  Love,  the  Muse. 

2  Emerson  wrote  to  Carlyle,  May  14,  1846 :  '  I,  too, 
have  a  new  plaything,  the  best  I  ever  had,  —  a  wood- 
lot.  Last  fall  I  bought  a  piece  of  more  than  forty  acres, 
on  the  border  of  a  little  lake  half  a  mile  wide  and  more, 
called  Walden  Pond  ;  —  a  place  to  which  my  feet  have 
for  years  been  accustomed  to  bring  me  once  or  twice 
a  week  at  all  seasons.'  See  the  whole  letter,  in  the 
Carlyle-Emerson  Correspondence,  vol.  ii,  pp.  123-125. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


Keen  ears  can  catch  a  syllable, 

As  if  one  spake  to  another,  30 

In  the  hemlocks  tall,  untamable, 

And  what  the  whispering  grasses  smother. 

JEolian  harps  in  the  pine 
Ring  with  the  song  of  the  Fates; 
Infant  Bacchus  in  the  vine,  — 
Far  distant  yet  his  chorus  waits. 

Canst  thou  copy  in  verse  one  chime 

Of  the  wood-bell's  peal  and  cry, 

Write  in  a  book  the  morning's  prime, 

Or  match  with  words  that  tender  sky  ?     4o 

Wonderful  verse  of  the  gods, 
Of  one  import,  of  varied  tone; 
They  chant  the  bliss  of  their  abodes 
To  man  imprisoned  in  his  own. 

Ever  the  words  of  the  gods  resound; 
But  the  porches  of  man's  ear 
Seldom  in  this  low  life's  round 
Are  unsealed,  that  he  may  hear. 

Wandering  voices  in  the  air 

And  murmurs  in  the  wold  50 

Speak  what  I  cannot  declare, 

Yet  cannot  all  withhold. 

When  the  shadow  fell  on  the  lake, 
The  whirlwind  in  ripples  wrote 
Air-bells  of  fortune  that  shine  and  break, 
And  omens  above  thought. 

But  the  meanings  cleave  to  the  lake, 

Cannot  be  carried  in  book  or  urn; 

Go  thy  ways  now,  come  later  back, 

On  waves  and  hedges  still  they  burn.        60 

These  the  fates  of  men  forecast, 
Of  better  men  than  live  to-day; 
If  who  can  read  them  comes  at  last 
He  will  spell  in  the  sculpture,  '  Stay.' 

1866. 

TERMINUS  i 

IT  is  time  to  be  old, 
To  take  in  sail:  — 

1  In  the  last  days  of  the  year  1866,  when  I  was  re- 
turning from  a  long  stay  in  the  Western  States,  I  met 
my  father  in  New  York  just  starting  for  his  usual  win- 


The  god  of  bounds, 

Who  sets  to  seas  a  shore, 

Came  to  me  in  his  fatal  rounds, 

And  said  :  '  No  more  ! 

No  farther  shoot 

Thy  broad  ambitious  branches,  and  thy  root. 

Fancy  departs:  no  more  invent; 

Contract  thy  firmament  10 

To  compass  of  a  tent. 

There  's  not  enough  for  this  and  that, 

Make  thy  option  which  of  two; 

Economize  the  failing  river, 

Not  the  less  revere  the  Giver, 

Leave  the  many  and  hold  the  few. 

Timely  wise  accept  the  terms, 

Soften  the  fall  with  wary  foot; 

A  little  while 

Still  plan  and  smile,  30 

And,  —  fault  of  novel  germs,  — 

Mature  the  unfallen  fruit. 

Curse,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  sires, 

Bad  husbands  of  their  fires, 

Who,  when  they  gave  thee  breath, 

Failed  to  bequeath 

The  needful  sinew  stark  as  once, 

The  Baresark  marrow  to  thy  bones, 

But  left  a  legacy  of  ebbing  veins, 

Inconstant  heat  and  nerveless  reins,  —      31. 

Amid  the  Muses,  left  thee  deaf  and  dumb, 

Amid  the  gladiators,  halt  and  numb.' 

As  the  bird  trims  her  to  tlie  gale, 
I  trim  myself  to  the  storm  of  time, 
I  man  the  rudder,  reef  the  sail, 
Obey  the  voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime: 
'  Lowly  faithful,  banish  fear, 
Right  onward  drive  unharmed; 
The  port,  well  worth  the  cruise,  is  near, 
And  every  wave  is  charmed.'  4o 

1866.  1867. 

ter  lecturing  trip,  in  those  days  extending  beyond  the 
Mississippi.  We  spent  the  night  together  at  the  St. 
Denis  Hotel,  and  as  we  sat  by  the  fire,  he  read  me  two 
or  three  of  his  poems  for  the  new  May-Day  volume, 
among  them  'Terminus.5  It  almost  startled  me.  No 
thought  of  his  ageing  had  ever  come  to  me,  and  there 
he  sat,  with  no  apparent  abatement  of  bodily  vigor,  and 
young  in  spirit,  recognizing  with  serene  acquiescence 
his  failing  forces ;  I  think  he  smiled  as  he  read.  He 
recognized,  as  none  of  us  did,  that  his  working  days 
were  nearly  done.  They  lasted  about  five  years  longer, 
although  he  lived,  in  comfortable  health,  yet  ten  years 
beyond  those  of  his  activity.  Almost  at  the  time  when 
he  wrote  '  Terminus  '  he  wrote  in  his  journal :  — 

1  Within  1  do  not  find  wrinkles  and  used  heart,  but 
unspent  youth.'  (E.  W.  EMBBSON,  in  the  Centenary 
Edition.) 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   POETRY 

THERE  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south-wind 

blows; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn  in  the 

glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft 

air, 

The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  out- 
spread. 

With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast  ushering  star  of  morning 

comes 
O'er-riding    the    gray    hills   with    golden 

scarf; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandalled 

Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western 

gate, 
Departs  with    silent    pace  !     That    spirit 

moves 

In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cas- 
cade; 

And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with 

endless  laughter. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.     And 

here,  amid  20 

The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from 

earth, 
As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure,  bright 

air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees   lift.     Hence 

gifted  bards 

Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 
For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in 

all 
The   sylvan  pomp  of   woods,  the   golden 

sun, 
The   flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its 

way, 


Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and   gentle 

winds, 
The  swelling  upland,   where  the   sidelong 

sun  30 

Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes, 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky 

looks  in, 
Mountain,  and  shattered   cliff,  and  sunny 

vale, 
The   distant   lake,  fountains,  and   mighty 

trees, 

In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of 

youth, 

My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty  4o 
That   dwell    in  nature;   of    the   heavenly 

forms 
We  worship  in   our  dreams,  and  the  soft 

hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush 

the  clouds 
When   the  sun   sets.     Within   her  tender 

eye 
The  heaven   of   April,  with  its   changing 

light, 
And  when   it  wears   the  blue  of   May,  is 

hung, 
And  on  her  lip   the  rich,  red   rose.     Her 

hair 

Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 
When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on 

her  cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky,    50 
With     ever-shifting     beauty.      Then    her 

breath, 

It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 
As,  from  the   morning's   dewy  flowers,  it 

comes 

Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 
To  have  it  round  us,  and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 
Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate 

cadence. 
1825.  1827. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


103 


BURIAL   OF   THE   MINNISINK1 

ON  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.     One  cloud  of  white, 

Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone;         10 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 

He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers,        20 

And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 

Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head; 

But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 

So  died  he  hi  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 

Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 

Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 

For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid; 

The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 

And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads.    30 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 

1  This  poem,  written  when  Longfellow  was  eighteen 
years  old,  is  interesting  as  an  early  example  of  that 
love  for  Indian  subjects  which  later  produced  '  Hiawa- 
tha.' It  should  be  compared  with  Whittier's  early 
poems  on  Indian  subjects,  '  Pentucket,'  '  The  Funeral 
Tree  of  the  Sokokis,'  'Mary  Garvin,'  •  Mogg  Megone,' 
etc ;  with  Lowell's  '  Chippewa  Legend  ; '  and  with 
Bryant's  '  The  Indian  Girl's  Lament,'  '  Monument 
Mountain.'  etc. 


With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread,  40 

He  came;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart !     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


THE   RETURN    OF    SPRING 

FROM   CHARLES   D?ORL£ ANS  2 

Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
And  clothes  him  in  the  embroidery 
Of  glittering  sun  and  clear  blue  sky. 
With  beast  and  bird  the  forest  rings, 
Each  in  his  jargon  cries  or  sings; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 

River,  and  fount,  and  tinkling  brook 
Wear  in  their  dainty  livery 
Drops  of  silver  jewelry; 
In  new-made  suit  they  merry  look; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ennined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 
130.  1831. 


2  Longfellow's  work  as  a  translator  extended  from 
almost  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  his  poetical  career, 
included  versions  from  the  French,  Spanish,  Italian, 
Portuguese,  Latin,  German,  Danish,  and  Anglo-Saxon, 
and  culminated  in  his  rendering  of  Dante's  Divine 
Comedy.  This  work  unquestionably  played  an  impor- 
tant part  in  his  development,  increasing  the  range  and 
suppleness  of  his  powers,  and  keeping  the  poet  alire  in 
him  during  the  long  period  when  he  was  completely 
absorbed  by  teaching,  lecturing,  prose  writing,  the 
composition  and  editing  of  text-books,  and  foreign 
travel.  For  twelve  or  thirteen  years,  between  his  early 
poems  and  the  new  beginning  of  his  poetical  work  in 
the  '  Psalm  of  Life,'  he  wrote  practically  nothing  in 
verse  except  translations. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  life  (in  a  letter  of  March  7, 
1879)  he  said  of  translation:  'And  what  a  difficult 
work !  There  is  evidently  a  great  and  strange  fascina- 
tion in  translating.  It  seizes  people  with  irresistible 
power,  and  whirls  them  a-^ay  till  they  are  beside  them- 
selves. It  is  like  a  ghost  beckoning  one  to  follow.' 
(Life,  vol.  Hi,  p.  298.)  (In  all  notes  on  Longfellow's 
poems,  the  '  Life  '  referred  to  is  Samuel  Longfellow's 
Life  of  Henry  Wadswortft  Longfellow,  3  volume* 


104 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


ART   AND   NATURE 


FROM   FRANCISCO   DE   MEDRANO 

THE  works  of  human  artifice  soon  tire 
The  curious  eye;  the  fountain's  sparkling 

rill, 
And    gardens,   when    adorned    by    human 

skill, 

Reproach  the  feeble  hand,  the  vain  desire. 
But  oh  !  the  free  and  wild  magnificence 
Of  Nature,  in  her  lavish  hours,  doth  steal, 
In  admiration  silent  and  intense, 
The  soul  of  him  who  hath  a  soul  to  feel. 
The  river  moving  on  its  ceaseless  way, 
The  verdant  reach  of  meadows  fair  and 

green, 
And  the  blue  hills,  that  bound  the  sylvan 

scene, 
These     speak     of    grandeur,    that    defies 

decay,  — 

Proclaim  the  Eternal  Architect  on  high, 
Who    stamps   on   all   his   works   his    own 

eternity. 
1832.  1832. 

A   PSALM   OF    LIFE* 

WHAT   THE   HEART   OK   THE   YOUNG   MAN 
SAID   TO   THE   PSALMIST 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  !  — 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

1  This  poem  has  been  called  '  the  very  heart-beat  of 
the  American  conscience.'  When  it  was  first  published, 
anonymously,  in  the  Knickerbocker  magazine  for 
October,  1838,  it  at  once  attracted  attention.  Whittier 
wrote  of  it  iu  the  Freeman  :  '  We  know  not  who  the 
author  may  be,  but  he  or  she  is  no  common  man  or 
woman.  These  nine  simple  verses  are  worth  more  than 
all  the  dreams  of  Shelley,  and  Keats,  and  Wordsworth. 
They  are  alive  and  vigorous  with  the  spirit  of  the  day  in 
which  we  live,  —  the  moral  steam  enginery  of  an  age  of 
action.'  (Quoted  by  Professor  Carpenter  in  his  Life 
of  Whittier.) 

The  writing  of  the  '  Psalm '  is  recorded  in  Longfel- 
low's Journal  under  the  date  of  July  26,  1838.  He  after- 
wards said  of  it,  '  I  kept  it  some  time  m  manuscript, 
unwilling  to  show  it  to  any  one,  it  being  a  voice  from  my 
inmost  heart  at  a  time  when  I  was  rallying  from  de- 
pression.' (Life  of  Longfellow,  vol.  i,p.301.)  In  other 
passages  of  his  Journal  he  speaks  of  writing  '  another 
psalm,'  'a  psalm  of  death,'  etc.  The  'psalmist'  to 
whom  the  young  man  speaks,  is  therefore  the  poet  him- 
self. '  It  was  the  young  man's  better  heart  answering 
and  refuting  his  own  mood  of  despondency.'  (Life,  vol. 
i,  pp.  283-284.)  See  further  the  Life,  of  Longfellow,  vol. 
i,  pp.  281-284  ;  and  vol.  ii,  pp.  186,  283.  The  poem  lias 
been  translated  into  many  languages,  including  Chinese 
and  Sanscrit.  (Life,  vol.  i,  p.  376 ;  vol.  iii,  pp.  43,  64.) 


Life  is  real  !   Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way;  IC 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  !  »o 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present  ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main,  30 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE   LIGHT   OF   STARS2 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little' moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

2  '  This  poem  was  written  on  a  beautiful  summer 
night.  The  moon,  a  little  strip  of  silver,  was  just  set- 
ting behind  the  grove  at  Mount  Auburn,  and  the  planet 
Mars  blazing  iri  the  southeast.  There  was  a  singular 
light  in  the  sky.'  (H.  W.  L.)  It  was  published  in  the 
same  number  of  the  Knickerbocker  as  the  last,  where 
it  was  headed  A  Second  Psalm  of  Life.  (Cambridge 
Edition  of  Longfellow's  Poetical  Works.) 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
Oh  no  !  from  that  blue  tent  above 

A  hero's  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  1  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0  star  of  strength  !   I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain; 

Thou  beckouest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 
Be  resolute  and  calm. 

Oh,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  thou  shalt  know  erelong, 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


HYMN   TO   THE    NIGHT* 

'Atrirotr/r),  TpjAAto-roj 

I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 

I   saw  her   sable   skirts   all   fringed  with 

light 
From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

1  '  No  poem  ever  opened  with  a  beauty  more  august,' 
says  Poe  in  his  early  review  of  the  Voices  of  (he  Night 
i  February,  1840).  See  his  further  criticism  of  the  poem, 
Kne  by  line,  in  the  Virginia  Edition  of  his  Works,  vol. 
x,  pp.  72-76. 


I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That   fill   the    haunted    chambers    of   the 
Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From   the    cool  cisterns   of  the  midnight 

air 

My  spirit  drank  repose; 
The    fountain    of    perpetual    peace   flows 

there,  — 
From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace  !  Peace  !  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this 

prayer  ! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The   welcome,  the   thrice-prayed  for,  the 

most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 
1839.  1839. 


FOOTSTEPS    OF   ANGELS  2 

WHEN  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 

Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall; 

=  A  slightly  different  version  of  the  first,  second, 
third,  sixth,  seventh  and  eighth  stanzas,  with  the  title 
'Evening  Shadows,'  is  to  be  found  in  Lqngfellow's 
Journal  under  the  date  of  February  27, 1838.  (Life,  vol. 
The  poem  was  finished  March  26, 


:,  pp.  HB- 

(Life,  vol 


.  i,  pp.  327-328).  The  fourth  stanza  alludes 
to  his  brother-in-law  and  closest  friend,  George  W. 
Pierce,  of  whose  death  he  had  heard  in  Germany  on 
Christmas  Eve  of  1835,  and  of  whom  he  wrote  nearly 
twenty  years  later :  '  I  have  never  ceased  to  feel  that 
in  his  death  something  was  taken  from  my  own  life 
which  could  never  be  restored.  I  have  constantly  in 
my  memory  his  beautiful  and  manly  character,  frank, 
generous,  impetuous,  gentle.'  The  sixth  and  following 
stanzas  allude  to  Mrs.  Longfellow,  who  died  at  Rotter- 
dam, November  29, 1835. 


io6 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door;  10 

The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 
Come  to  visit  me  once  more; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
W  ho  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  !  20 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes,       30 
Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 

Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  !    4o 
1838,  1839.  1839. 


THE   BELEAGUERED    CITY 

I   HAVE  read,   in    some    old,   marvellous 

tale,1 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

1  During  his  visit  to  his  friend  Ward,  in  New  York, 
in  August,  strolling  into  the  library  one  day  after  break- 
fast, he  took  carelessly  from  the  shelf  a  volume  of 
Scott's  Border  Minstrelsy,  and  opened  at  one  of  the 
notes,  containing  the  tradition  about  the  city  of  Prague 
upon  which  this  poem  is  founded :  '  Similar  to  this  was 
the  Nacht  Lager,  or  midnight  camp,  which  seemed 
nightly  to  beleasuer  the  walls  of  Prague,  but  which  dis- 
appeared upon  the  recitation  of  certain  magical  words.' 
(Life,  vol.  i,  p.  344,  note.) 


That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 
There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen,  10 

And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 
The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 

On  the  alarmed  air.  2o 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  "fled; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 
In  Fancy's  misty  light,  30 

Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 
Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave.  40 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 
The  spectral  camp  is  fled; 


1839. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


107 


Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 
Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS  » 

IT  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daugh- 
ter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And   her   bosom   white   as   the   hawthorn 

buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  month,  10 

And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did 

blow 
The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sail6r, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 

'  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

'  Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  ! ' 

The   skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his 

pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he.       20 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 


1  Longfellow  wrote  in  his  Journal  on  December  17, 
1339 :  '  News  of  shipwrecks  horrible  on  the  coast. 
Twenty  bodies  washed  ashore  near  Gloucester,  one 
lashed  to  a  piece  of  the  wreck.  There  is  a  reef  called 
Norman's  Woe  where  many  of  these  took  place;  among 
others  the  schooner  Hesperus.  Also  the  Sea-flower  on 
Black  Rock.  I  must  write  a  ballad  upon  this.' 

The  ballad  was  actually  written  twelve  days  later,  on 
cue  night  of  December  29 :  '  I  wrote  last  evening  a  no- 
tice of  Allston's  poems.  After  which  I  sat  till  twelve 
o'clock  by  my  fire,  smoking,  when  suddenly  it  came  into 
my  mind  to  write  the  "Ballad  of  the  Schooner  Hes- 
perus ;  "  which  I  accordingly  did.  Then  I  went  to  bed, 
but  could  not  sleep  New  thoughts  were  running  in 
my  mind,  and  I  got  up  to  add  them  to  the  ballad.  It 
was  three  by  the  clock.  I  then  went  to  bed  and  fell 
asleep.  I  feel  pleased  with  the  ballad.  It  hardly  cost 
me  an  effort.  It  did  not  come  into  my  mind  by  lines 
but  by  stanzas.'  (Journal,  December  30.) 


Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  hi  its  strength; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted 
steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

*  Come  hither !  come  hither !  my  little 
daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so;  30 

For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow.' 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

'  0  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  ' 
'  T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast  ! '  — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea.        40 

'  O  father  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  ' 
'  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  ! ' 

'  O  father  !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  ' 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies,       50 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming 

snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eves. 

Then  the   maiden  clasped  her  hands  nad 

prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the 

wave, 
On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and 
drear, 

Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 
Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 

Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe.     60 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 
A  sound  came  from  the  land; 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 


io8 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 
She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 

And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 
Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 
Looked  soft  as  carded  wool,  70 

But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast.          80 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea- 
weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

•Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 

1839.  1840. 


THE   VILLAGE   BLACKSMITH1 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can,  10 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

i  Longfellow  at  firs*  called  "The  Village  Black- 
smith '  a  '  new  Psalm  of  Lif -.  out  later  it  was  included 
among  the  Ballads.  See  i-ue  Life,  vol.  i,  pp.  345,  374 
and  note. 

In  1876  the  'spreading  chestnut-tree'  was  cut  down 
to  give  room  for  the  widening  of  Brattle  Street,  and 
from  its  wood  was  made  the  armchair  presented  to 
Longfellow  by  the  schoolchildren  of  Cambridge.  See 
p.  255. 


Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door;  20 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 
And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice.  3o 

It  somids  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close;  4o 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,     thanks     to     thee,    my     worthy 
friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought; 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 
1839.  1840. 


THE    SKELETON    IN   ARMOR3 

Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 
Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 


2  Longfellow  wrotp  in  his    Tournal  on  May  3,  1838 : 
'  I  have  been  looking  at  the  old  Northern  Sagas,  and 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


109 


Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 
Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ? 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise,  10 

As  when  the  Northern  skies 
Gleam  in  December; 

thinking  of  a  series  of  ballads  or  a  romantic  poem  on  the 
deeds  of  the  first  bold  viking  who  crossed  to  this  west- 
ern world,  with  storm-spirits  and  devil-machinery  under 
water.  New  England  ballads  I  have  long  thought  of. 
This  seems  to  be  an  introduction.  I  will  dream  more  of 
this.' 

A  few  months  later,  returning  to  Cambridge  from 
Newport,  where  he  had  doubtless  seen  the  '  Round 
Tower,'  he  passed  through  Fall  River  just  after  the 
skeleton  in  armor  had  been  unearthed.  These  two 
things  fitted  in  with  his  previous  conception,  and  on 
May  24,  1839,  he  speaks  of  his  '  plan  for  a  heroic  poem 
on  the  Discovery  of  America  by  the  Northmen,  in  which 
the  Round  Tower  at  Newport  and  the  Skeleton  in  Armor 
have  a  part  to  play.'  In  a  letter  to  his  father,  of  De- 
cember 13,  1840,  after  the  ballad  was  written,  lie  speaks 
of  having  himself  seen  the  skeleton  :  '  I  suppose  it  to 
be  the  remains  of  one  of  the  old  Northern  sea  rovers 
who  came  to  this  country  in  the  tenth  century.  Of 
course  I  make  the  tradition  myself.' 

For  a  full  account  of  the  finding  of  the  skeleton,  see 
the  American  Monthly  Magazine  of  January,  1836,  from 
which  the  following  description  is  taken  :  — 

4  In  digging  down  a  hill  near  the  village,  a  large  mass 
of  earth  slid  off,  leaving  in  the  bank  and  partially 
uncovered  a  human  skull,  which  on  examination  was 
found  to  belong  to  a  body  buried  in  a  sitting  posture; 
the  head  being  about  one  foot  below  what  had  been  for 
many  years  the  surface  of  the  ground.  The  surround- 
ing earth  was  carefully  removed,  and  the  body  found 
to  be  enveloped  in  a  covering  of  coarse  bark  of  a  dark 
color.  Within  this  envelope  were  found  the  remains  of 
another  of  coarse  cloth,  made  of  fine  bark.,  and  about 
the  texture  of  a  Manilla  coffee  bag.  On  the  breast  was 
a  plate  of  brass,  thirteen  inches  long,  six  broad  at  the 
upper  end,  and  five  in  the  lower.  This  plate  appears  to 
have  been  cast,  and  is  from  one  eighth  to  three  thirty- 
seconds  of  an  inch  in  thickness.  It  is  so  much  corroded 
that  whether  or  not  anything  was  engraved  upon  it  has 
not  yet  been  ascertained.  It  is  oval  in  form,  the  edges 
being  irregular,  apparently  made  so  by  corrosion. 
Below  the  breastplate,  and  entirely  encircling  the  body, 
was  a  belt  composed  of  brass  tubes,  each  four  and  a 
half  inches  in  length,  and  three  sixteenths  of  an  inch  in 
diameter,  arranged  longitudinally  and  close  together, 
the  length  of  the  tube  being  the  width  of  the  belt.  The 
tubes  are  of  thin  brass,  cast  upon  hollow  reeds,  and 
were  fastened  together  by  pieces  of  sinew.  Near  the 
right  knee  was  a  quiver  of  arrows.  The  arrows  are  of 
brass,  thin,  flat,  and  triangular  in  shape,  with  a  round 
hole  cut  through  near  the  base.  The  shaft  was  fastened 
to  the  head  by  inserting  the  latter  in  an  opening  at  the 
end  of  the  wood  and  then  tying  with  a  sinew  through 
the  round  hole,  a  mode  of  constructing  the  weapon 
never  practised  by  the  Indians,  not  even  with  their 
arrows  of  thin  shell.  Parts  of  the  shaft  still  remain  on 
some  of  them.  When  first  discovered,  the  arrows  were 
in  a  sort  of  quiver  of  bark,  which  fell  to  pieces  when 
exposed  to  the  air.' 

Poe  calls  '  The  Skeleton  in  Armor '  '  a  pure  and 
perfect  thesis  artistically  treated.'  See  his  review  of 
Longfellow's  Sallad.i  and  Other  Poems,  April,  1842,  in 
the  Virginia  Edition  of  his  Works,  vol.  xi. 


And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 
From  the  heart's  chamber. 

'  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse  ; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

'  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound. 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

'  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

4  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled. 

By  our  stern  orders. 

'  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing,  i 

As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

'  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 
Burning  yet  tender; 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


And  as  the  white  stars  shine 

And  with  a  sudden  flaw 

On  the  dark  Norway  piue, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw,             no 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

'  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 

'  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 

And  in  the  forest's  shade 

"  Death  !  "  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 

"  Death  without  quarter  !  " 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 

Fluttered  her  little  breast,                   70 

Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel; 

Like  birds  within  their  nest 

Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

Through  the  black  water  !              120 

«  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 

'As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 

Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 
Chanting  his  glory  ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story.                              80 

Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 
With  his  prey  laden,  — 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 
Bore  I  the  maiden. 

'  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 
The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

'  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er,           ija 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 
Stretching  to  leeward; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 
Stands  looking  seaward. 

'  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild,                              90 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 
I  was  discarded  ! 

'  There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

She  was  a  mother;                            i40 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies;  1 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another  ! 

'  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

'  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  feu  ! 

Among  the  Norsemen  !                   100 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

Hateful  to  me  were  men, 
The  sunlight  hateful  ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear,                    150 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 
Oh,  death  was  grateful  ! 

«  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 

1  The  '  Round  Tower  '  at  Newport,  sometimes  called 

Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 

the  Old  Mill,  is  of  a  style  of  architecture  belonging  to 

Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 
When  the  wind  failed  us; 

the  eleventh  century,  and  is  thought  by  gome  to  have 
been  built  by  the  Northmen.  This  is  exceedingly  doubt- 
ful, however. 

HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


'  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal !  to  the  Northland  !  skoal ! ' 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 


1841. 


SERENADE 

FROM   'THE  SPANISH   STUDENT' 

STARS  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  you  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch  !  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps ! 
1840.  1842. 


ENDYMION 

THE  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars; 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 


1  In  Scandinavia,  this  is  the  customary  salutation 
when  drinking  a  health.  I  have  slightly  changed  the 
orthography  of  the  word  [sknat]  in  order  to  preserve 
the  correct  pronunciation.  (LONSPBLLOW.) 


And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss,  ic 

When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 
He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaz«. 

It  comes,  —  the  beautiful,  the  ?f <je, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity,  — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one.  2C 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him  who  slumbering  lies. 

O  weary  hearts  !    O  slumbering  eyes  ! 
O  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 

No  one  so  utterly  desolate,  3C 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 


—  as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
angel  touched  its  quivering  strings; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
'  Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  ?  * 
1841.  1841, 


THE  RAINY  DAY       * 

THE  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary: 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary; 
The   vine   still    clings   to  the   mouldering 

wall, 

But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary; 
It  rams,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering 
Past. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the 

blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart!  and  cease  repining; 
Behind  the  clouds  is   the  sun  still   shin- 
ing; 

Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 
1841.  1841. 


MAIDENHOOD1 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  leluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance,  10 

On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 

As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye,  20 

Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ? 

Oh,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  —  Life  hath  snares  ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

1  Longfellow  wrote  to  his  father  on  December  18, 
1841 :  '  The  Ballads  and  Other  Poems  will  be  published 
to-morrow.  .  .  .  I  think  the  last  two  pieces  ["  Maiden- 
hood" and  "Excelsior"]  the  best,  —  perhaps  as  good 
M  anything  I  have  written. '  (Life,  vol.  i,  p.  109.) 


Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 

Morning  rises  into  noon, 

May  glides  onward  into  June.  30 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth,  4o 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

Oh,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal  ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


1841. 


1841. 


EXCELSIOR2 


THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 

2  '  Excelsior '  was  inspired  by  the  motto  on  the  shield 
of  New  York  State,  which  Longfellow  happened  to  see 
copied  as  the  heading  of  a  newspaper.  The  significance 
of  the  poem  is  well  expressed  by  Poe  at  the  end  of  his 
review  of  Longfellow's  Ballads  and  Other  Poems,  in  a 
passage  beginning,  '  It  depicts  the  earnest  upward  im- 
pulse of  the  soul,  —  an  impulse  not  to  be  subdued  even 
in  death.'  Longfellow  himself  has  described  his  pur- 
pose fully  in  a  letter  to  C.  K.  Tuckerman  :  — 

'  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  your  note  in  re- 
gard to  the  poem  "  Excelsior,"  and  very  willingly  give 
you  my  intention  in  writing  it.  This  was  no  more  than 
to  display,  in  a  series  of  pictures,  the  life  of  a  man  of 
genius,  resisting  all  temptations,  laying  aside  all  fears, 
heedless  of  all  warnings,  and  pressing  rirht  on  to 
accomplish  his  purpose.  His  motto  is  Ercelsior, 
"higher."  He  passes  through  the  Alpine  village  - 
through  the  rough,  cold  paths  of  the  world  —  where  the 
peasants  cannot  understand  him,  and  where  the  watch- 
word is  an  "  unknown  tongue."  He  disregards  the  happi- 
ness of  domestic  peace  and  sees  the  glaciers  —  his  fate  — 
before  him.  He  disregards  the  warning  of  the  old  man's 
wisdom  and  the  fascinations  of  woman's  love.  He  an- 
swers to  all,  "  Higher  yet !  "  The  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
are  the  representatives  of  religions  forms  and  ceremo- 
nies, and  with  their  oft-repeated  prayer  mingles  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  telling  them  there  is  something 
higher  than  forms  and  ceremonies.  Filled  with  these 
aspirations,  he  perishes ;  without  having  reached  the 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  ! 

His  brow  was  sad;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior  ! 

'  Try  not  the  Pass  !  '  the  old  man  said ; 
*  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  !  ' 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior  ! 

'  Oh  stay,'  the  maiden  said,  '  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast ! ' 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior  ! 

'  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  ! ' 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 

perfection  he  Ipnjfed  for  ;  and  the  voice  heard  in  the 
air  is  the  promise  of  immortality  and  progress  ever  up- 
ward.' 

The  manuscript  of  the  poem,  containing  many  altera- 
tions, is  kept  on  exhibition  in  the  Art  Room  of  the 
Harvard  University  Library.  It  is  written  on  the  back 
of  a  letter  from  Charles-Sumner,  and  dated  '  September 
23,  1841.  Half-past  three  o'clock,  morning.'  See  H.  E. 
Scudder's  Men  and  Letters,  pp.  137-146 :  '  The  Shaping 
of  Excelsior.' 


And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 

Excelsior  ! 
1841.  1841. 


MEZZO    CAMMIN1 

HALF  of  my  life  is  gone,  and  I  have  let 
The  years  slip  from  me  and  have  not  ful- 
filled 

The  aspiration  of  my  youth,  to  build 
Some  tower  of  song  with  lofty  parapet. 
Not  indolence,  nor  pleasure,  nor  the  fret 
Of    restless   passions   that  would    not    be 

stilled, 

But  sorrow,  and  a  care  that  almost  killed, 
Kept  me  from  what  I  may  accomplish  yet; 
Though,  half-way  up  the  hill,  I  see  the  Past 
Lying   beneath  me   with    its    sounds   and 

sights,  — 

A  city  in  the  twilight  dim  and  vast, 
With  smoking  roofs,  soft  bells,  and  gleam- 
ing lights, — 

And  hear  above  me  on  the  autumnal  blast 
The  cataract  of  Death  far  thundering  from 

the  heights. 
1842.  1886. 

THE    SLAVE'S    DREAM2 

BESIDE  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand; 
His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 

Was  buried  in  the  sand. 
Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 

He  saw  his  Native  Land. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 
The  lordly  Niger  flowed; 

1  Longfellow's  health  was  so  seriously  impaired  by 
his  close  work  as  teacher,  lecturer,  editor,  and  author, 
that  in  the  spring  of  1842  he  took  six  months',  leave  of 
absence,  and   spent  most  of  the  time  at  the  'water- 
cure  '  of  Marienberg.     While  there  he  wrote  no  verse 
except  this  sonnet,  dated  August  25,  just  before  leav- 
ing for  England  on  his  way  home.     It  was  first  pub- 
lished in  the  Life. 

2  Longfellow  wrote  all  his  Po»ms  on  Slavery  during 
his  voyage  home  in   1842,  and  they  were  published 
in  a  small  volume  of  thirty -ono  pages  in  December  of 
that  year.  The   intense  sincerity  of  Whittier's  poems 
against  slavery  is  lacking  in  Longfellow's  sentimental 
and    '  romantic '    treatment  of    the    subject  ;    but    it 
meant  much  for  him  to  take  the  side  which  he  did,  so 
early  as  1842.     See  the  Life,  vol.  i,  pp.  443-453,  vol.  ii, 
pp.  7-10,  20-21 ;  and  T.  W.  Higginson's  Life  of  Long- 
fellow, pp.  163-167.    Compare  the  notes  on  Lowell'.? 
'  Stanzas  on  Freedom  '  and  on  Whittier's  '  To  William 
Lloyd  Garrison.' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 

Once  more  a  king  he  strode ;  10 

And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 
Descend  the  mountain  road. 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 

Among  her  children  stand; 
They   clasped    his   neck,   they   kissed   his 
cheeks, 

They  held  him  by  the  hand  !  — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids 

And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank;  20 

His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 
And,  with  a  martial  clank, 

At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of 

steel 
Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew ; 
From   morn   till   night   he   followed  their 
flight, 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view.  30 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyena  scream, 
And  the   river-horse,   as   he    crushed    the 

reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream; 
And   it    passed,   like   a   glorious    roll    of 

drums, 
Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 

Shouted  of  liberty; 
And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free,  40 

That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 

He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day; 
For    Death    had    illumined   the   Land   of 
Sleep, 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away  ! 
184Z-  1842. 


THE   ARSENAL   AT   SPRING- 
FIELD1 

THIS  is  the  Arsenal.    From  floor  to  ceil- 
ing, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished 

arms; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  peal- 
ing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and 

dreary, 
When    the    death-angel    touches    those 

swift  keys  ! 

What  loxid  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  sympho- 
nies ! 

I  hear  even  now  the   infinite   fierce  cho- 
rus, 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan,   JC 
Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone 

before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  ham- 
mer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norse- 


And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 
O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartai 
gong. 

1  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  pal- 
ace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful 

din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 
Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  ser- 
pent's skin;  20 

1  Longfellow  was  married  to  Frances  Appleton  in 
1843.  On  their  wedding  journey  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Long- 
fellow visited  the  Arsenal  at  Springfield,  in  company 
with  Charles  Simmer.  This  visit,  and  the  origin  of  the 
poem,  are  described  in  the  Life :  '  While  Mr.  Sumner 
was  endeavoring  to  impress  upon  the  attendant  that 
the  money  expended  upon  these  weapons  of  war  would 
have  been  much  better  spent  upon  a  great  library,  Mrs. 
Longfellow  pleased  her  husband  by  remarking  how 
like  anorgnn  looked  the  ranged  and  shining  gun-barrels 
which  covered  the  walls  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  sug- 
gesting what  mournful  music  Death  would  bring  from 
them.  "  We  grew  quite  warlike  against  war,"  ehe  wrote, 
"andltirped  H.  to  write  a  peace  poem."  Fromthishint 
came  "The  Arsenal  at  Springfield."  written  some 
mouths  laittr.'  (Vol.  ii,  pp.  'A  3.)  See  also  Lowell's 
Letters,  vol.  i,  p.  I'T,  letter  of  Aug.  13.  1845 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


JI5 


The  tumult  of   each  sacked  and  burning 

village ; 
The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy 

drowns; 

The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pil- 
lage; 

The    wail    of    famine    in     beleaguered 
towns; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched 

asunder, 
The    rattling    musketry,    the    clashing 

blade; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With     such    accursed     instruments     as 
these,  30 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly 

voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world 

with  terror, 
Were    half     the    wealth    bestowed    on 

camps  and  courts, 
Given   to  redeem  the  human  mind  from 

error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts: 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  ab- 
horred ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its   hand   against   a   brother,  on  its  fore- 
head 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of 
Cain !  4o 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  gener- 
ations, 
The    echoing  sounds   grow  fainter   and 

then  cease; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibra- 
tions, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say, 
« Peace  ! ' 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  por- 
tals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes 

the  skies  ! 
But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 

The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 
1844.  1844. 


THE    DAY   IS   DONE  i 

THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist: 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain,  <« 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time.          at 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease,  jf 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs,  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice.  40 

1  Originally  written  as  the  proem  to  a  volume  of  se- 
lections from  minor  poets,  called  T/ie  Waif,  and  edited 
ty  Longfellow. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 

And  as  silently  steal  away. 
'•>//.  1844. 


SEAWEED 

WHEN  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks: 

From  Bermuda's  reefs;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing,  10 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting  20 

Currents  of  the  restless  main; 

Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 
Of  sandy  beaches, 

All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song:  30 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 
Wrestle  with  the  tides  of  Fate; 


From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 
Tempest-shattered,  4I 

Floating  waste  and  desolate ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 
1844.  1845. 

NUREMBERG1 

IN  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across 
broad  meadow-lands 

Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nu- 
remberg, the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint 

old  town  of  art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed   gables,  like 

the  rooks  that  round  them  throng: 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the 
emperors,  rough  and  bold, 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time- 
defying,  centuries  old; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted, 

in  their  uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its 

hand  through  every  clime.2 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with 

many  an  iron  band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen 

Cunigunde's  hand;  10 

1  This  poem  is  typical  of  the  impressions  which  Long- 
fellow received  from  travel  in  Europe,  as  expressed  in 
the  Belfry  of  Bruges  volume  and  elsewhere.  The  prose 
material  of  the  poem  is  to  be  found  in  a  letter  of  Sep- 
tember 24,  1842,  to  the  German  poet  Freiligrath  :  — 

'Without  any  doubt,  I  am  in  the  ancient  city  of 
Nurnberg.  I  arrived  last  night  at  ten  o'clock,  and  took 
my  first  view  by  moonlight,  strolling  alone  through 
the  broad,  silent  streets,  and  listening  to  the  musical 
bells  that  ever  and  anon  gave  a  hint  that  it  was  bed- 
time. 

4  To-day  has  been  a  busy,  exciting  day.  I  have  seen 
the  best  works  of  Albrecht  Diirer,  Peter  Vischer,  and 
other  worthies  of  Nurnberg.  I  have  seen  Diirer's  house 
and  his  grave  ;  also  those  of  Hans  Sachs.  The  old  shoe- 
maker's house  is  now  an  ale-house.  His  portrait  is  on 
the  sign  of  the  door,  with  this  inscription :  '  Gastliaus 
zum  Hans  SachsS  .  .  . 

1  An  old  popular  proverb  of  the  town  runs  thus :  — 
JKntbergs  Hand 
Oeht  durch  all?  Land. 

Nuremberg's  hand 

Goes  through  every  land.  (LOSOFELI.OW.I 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


117 


On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in 
old  heroic  days 

Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maxi- 
milian's praise.1 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  won- 
drous world  of  Art: 

Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture 
standing  in  the  common  mart; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and 

bishops  carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles 

to  our  own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  en- 
shrined his  holy  dust,'2 

And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard 
from  age  to  age  their  trust; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a 

pix  of  sculpture  rare,3 
Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising 

through  the  painted  air.  20 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a 

simple,  reverent  heart, 
Lived  and  labored   Albrecht  Diirer,   the 

Evangelist  of  Art; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still 

with  busy  hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for 

the  Better  Laud. 

Fttnigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb- 
stone where  he  lies; 

Dead  he  is  not,  but  departed,  —  for  the 
artist  never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sun- 
shine seems  more  fair, 

That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that 
he  once  has  breathed  its  air  ! 

1  Melchior  Pfinzing  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
German  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century.   The  hero  of 
his  Teuerdank  was  the  reigning  Emperor,  Maximilian  ; 
and  the  poem  was  to  the  Germans  of  that  day  what  the 
Orlando  Furioso  was  to  the  Italians.   (LONGFELLOW.) 

2  The  tomb  of  Saint  Sebald,   in  the  church  which 
bears  his  name,  is  one  of  the  richest  works  of  art  in 
Nuremberg.   It  is  of  bronze,    and  was  cast  by  Peter 
Vischer  and   his  sons,  who  labored  upon  it  thirteen 
years.   It  is  adorned  with  nearly  one  hundred  figures, 
among  which  those  of  the  Twelve  Apostles  are  con- 
spicuous for  size  and  beauty.   (LONGFELLOW.) 

8  This  pix,  or  tabernacle  for  the  vessels  of  the  sacra- 
ment, is  by  the  hand  of  Adam  Kraft-    It  is  a»i  exquisite 


Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately, 
these  obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 

Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chant- 
ing rude  poetic  strains.  30 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs  came 
they  to  the  friendly  guild, 

Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as 
in  spouts  the  swallows  build, 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he 

too  the  mystic  rhyme, 
And  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered 

to  the  anvil's  chime; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom 
makes  the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 

In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tis- 
sues of  the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate 

of  the  gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of  the   Twelve  Wise   Masters,  in 

huge  folios  sang  and  laughed.4 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a 

nicely  sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face 

above  the  door;  40 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam 

Puschmau's  song,-'' 
As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with 

his  great  beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to 

drown  his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the 

master's  antique  chair. 

piece  of  sculpture  in  white  stone,  and  rises  to  the 
height  of  sixty-four  feet.  It  stands  in  the  choir,  whose 
richly  painted  windows  cover  it  with  varied  colors. 
(LONGFELLOW.) 

*  The  Twelve  Wise  Masters  was  the  title  of  the 
original  corporation  of  the  Mastersingers.  Hans  Sachs, 
the  cobbler  of  Nuremberg,  though  not  one  of  the  origi- 
nal Twelve,  was  the  most  renowned  of  the  Mastersing- 
ers, as  well  as  the  most  voluminous.  He  flourished 
in  the  sixteenth  century ;  and  left  behind  him  thirty- 
four  folio  volumes  of  manuscript,  containingi  two  hun- 
dred and  eight  plays,  one  thousand  and  seven  hundred 
comic  tales,  and  between  four  and  five  thousand  lyric 
poems.  (LONGFELLOW.) 

"  Adam  Puschman,  in  his  poem  on  the  death  of 
Hans  Sachs,  describes  him  as  he  appeared  in  a  vision :  — 

An  old  man. 

Gray  and  white,  and  dove-like. 
Who  had,  in  sooth,  a  great  beard, 
And  read  in  a  fair,  great  book, 
Beautiful  with  golden  clasps, 

(LONGFELLOW.) 


n8 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  be- 
fore my  dreamy  eye 

Wave  these  mingled  shapes  and  figures, 
like  a  faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for 

thee  the  world's  regard; 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  Hans 

Sachs  thy  cobbler  bard. 

Thus,  O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a 

region  far  away, 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards, 

sang  in  thought  his  careless  lay:     50 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as 

a  floweret  of  the  soil, 
The  nobility  of  labor,  —  the  long  pedigree 

of  toil. 
1844.  1844. 


THE   BELFRY   OF   BRUGES 

CARILLON 

IN  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 
As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended, 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 
And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 
By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a  moment  woke  the  echoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I  heard  those  magic  numbers, 
As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night; 
Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  visio:>, 


Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 

Gypsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies,       30 

Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 

Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 

Have  their  solitary  dwelling; 

All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 

In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

And  I  thought  how  like  these  chimes 

Are  the  poet's  airy  rhymes, 

All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 

His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 

From  the  belfry  of  his  brain,  4c 

Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 

On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities  ! 

For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 

Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 

And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 

Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 

But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas  ! 

Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 

Yet  perchance  a  sleepless  wight, 

Lodging  at  some  humble  inn  50 

In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 

When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 

Shut  out  the  incessant  din 

Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife, 

May  listen  with  a  calm  delight 

To  the  poet's  melodies, 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 

Intermingled  with  the  song, 

Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long; 

Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing         60 

The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 

And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumberous  eyes 

Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 

Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I  lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Ble', 
Listening  with  a  wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 
1845.  1845.1 

DANTE 

TUSCAN,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms 

of  gloom, 
With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,   majestic 

eyes, 

1  The  Belfry  of  Bruges  volume  bears  the  date  1846, 
and  is  listed  as  of  that  year  in  the  bibliographies  of 
Longfellow  and  in  at.  least  two  books  on  the  first  edi- 
tions of  American  authors  ;  but  it  was  actually  pub- 
lished on  December  23,  1845. 


HENRY   VVADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul 

arise, 

Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 
Thy    sacred   song    is    like   the   trump   of 

doom; 

Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
What   soft   compassion  glows;   as   in   the 

skies 

The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  re- 
lume ! 
Methinks   I    see   thee   stand    with    pallid 

cheeks 

By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese, 
As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden  streaks, 
The   ascending   sunbeams  mark  the  day's 

decrease ; 
And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger 

seeks, 
Thy    voice     along    the    cloister    whispers 

'  Peace  ! ' 
1843  ?  1845. 


THE   BRIDGE1 

I  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea.'2 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June,  10 

The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  awav ; 


1  Called   '  The  Bridge  over  the  Charles,'   in  Long- 
fellow's Journal,  Oct.  9,  1845.    In  an  earlier  passage 
of  his  Journal,  March  15,  1838,  he  speaks  of   his  de- 
light in  walking  to  and  from   Boston,  and  says  :    '  I 
always  stop  on  the  bridge  ;  tide-waters  are  beautiful. 
From  the  ocean  up  into  the  land  they  go,  like  mes- 
sengers, to  ask    why  the  tribute  has  not  been  paid. 
The   brooks  and  rivers  answer    that   there   has   been 
little  harvest  of  snow  and  rain  this  year.'    Life,  vol.  i, 
p.  289. 

2  An  excellent  example  cf  the  '  literary '  character  of 
Longfellow's  inspiration.    This  is  evidently  a  reminis- 
cence of  the  German  ballads,  not  of  anything  seen  or 
conceived  by  the  poet  himself. 


IIQ 


As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide.  2o 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide       30 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 

O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me.  40 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro,  n« 

The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 

And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions1, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 

And  its  wavering  image  here.  6e 

1S45.  1845. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


THE   OLD    CLOCK   ON    THE 
STAIRS1 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 
'  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  ! ' 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands      10 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 
'  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  ! ' 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall,  20 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,  — 
'  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  ! ' 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth,' 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  tune,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  —  30 
'  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  ' 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 

Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 

His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared; 

1  Longfellow  wrote  in  his  Journal  under  the  date  of 
November  12,  1845 :  '  Began  a  poem  on  a  clock,  with 
the  words  "  Forever,  never,"  as  the  burden  ;  suggested 
by  the  words  of  Bridaine,  the  old  French  missionary, 
who  said  of  eternity,  C'est  unc  pendule  donl  le  balancirr 
dit  et  redit  sans  cesse  ces  deux  mots  settlement  dans  le  si- 
lence des  fombeauz,  —  Toujours,  jamais  !  Jamais,  tou- 
jours !  Et  pendant  ces  effrayables  revolutions,  un  re- 
prouve  s'ecrie,  "  Quelle  heure  est-ilf"  e' la  vote  d^un 
autre  miserable  lui  repond,  "  L'Eternite.'"  ' 

The  '  old-fashioned  country-seat,'  where  the  clock 
stood,  is  in  Pittsfield,  Mass.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Longfellow 
visited  it  on  their  wedding  journey  in  1843.  (Life,  vol. 
ii,  pp.  2,  24,  25.)  The  house  belonged  to  relatives  of 
Mrs.  Longfellow,  and  when  it  was  sold  in  1853,  the 
'  old  clock '  was  alone  reserved  by  the  family.  (Lfife, 
rol.  ii,  p.  259.1 


The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 
'  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  ! '  40 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There     youths     and     maidens     dreaming 

strayed; 

O  precious  hours  !     O  golden  prime. 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 

'  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  ! ' 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The   bride   came   forth    on    her   wedding 

night;  so 

There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 

'  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  ! ' 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
'  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ?  ' 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by,  61 

The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 
'  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  ' 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  —  70 

'  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  ! ' 
1845.  '  1845. 


THE   ARROW   AND   THE   SONG 

I  SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 

It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 
1843.  1845. 

CURFEW1. 


SOLEMNLY,  mo.irnfully, 

Dealing  its  dole, 
The  Curfew  Bell 

Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows, 
And  quenched  is  the  fire; 

Sound  fades  into  silence,  — 
All  footsteps  retire. 


No  voice  in  the  chambers, 
No  sound  in  the  hall ! 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all ! 


The  book  is  completed, 
And  closed,  like  the  day; 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 

Dim  grow  its  fancies; 

Forgotten  they  lie; 
Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 

They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence, 

The  story  is  told, 
The  windows  are  darkened, 

The  hearth-stone  is  cold. 

Darker  and  darker 

The  black  shadows  fall; 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all. 


1845 


EVANGELINE2 


A    TALE    OF    ACADIE 


THIS  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmur- 
ing pines  and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green, 
indistinct  in  the  twilight, 

1  The  concluding  poem  in  the  Belfry  of  Bruges  vol- 
ume. 

2  The  origin  of  '  Evangeline  '  is  described  as  follows 
in  the  Life  of  Longfellow  :  '  Mr.  Hawthorne  came  one 
day  to  dine  at  Craigie   House,  bringing  with  him  his 
friend  Mr.  H.  L.  Conolly,  who  had  been  the  rector  of  a 
church  in  South  Boston.    At  dinner  Conolly  said  that 
he  had  been  trying  in  vain  to  interest  Hawthorne  to 
write  a  story  upon  an  incident  which  had  been  related 
to  him  by  a  parishioner  of  his,  Mrs.  Haliburton.   It  was 
the  story  of  a  young  Acadian  maiden,  who  at  the  dis- 
persion of  her  people  by  the  English  troops  had  been 
separated  from  her  betrothed  lover ;  they  sought  each 
other  for  years  in  their  exile;  and  at  last  they  met  in 
a  hospital  where  the  lover  lay  dying.    Mr.  Longfellow 
was  touched  by  the  story,  especially  by  the  constancy 
of  its  heroine,  and  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  you  really  do 
not  want  this  incident  for  a  tale,  let  me  have  it  for  a 
poem ;  "  and  Hawthorne  consented.'   (Life,  vol.  ii,  pp. 
70-71.) 

The  account  given  by  Hawthorne  is  substantially  the 
same,  but  contains  a  somewhat  fuller  outline  of  the 
story  :  '  H.  L.  C.  heard  from  a  French  Canadian  a  story 
of  a  young  couple  in  Acadie.  On  their  marriage-day  all 
the  men  of  the  Province  were  summoned  to  assemble 


Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad 

and  prophetic, 
Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that 

rest  on  their  bosoms. 

in  the  church  to  hear  a  proclamation.  When  assembled, 
they  were  all  seized  and  shipped  off  to  be  distributed 
through  New  England, — among  them  the  new  bride- 
groom. His  bride  set  off  in  search  of  him — wandered 
about  New  England  all  her  lifetime,  and  at  last,  when 
she  was  old,  she  found  her  bridegroom  on  his  death- 
bed. The  shock  was  so  great  that  it  killed  her  likewise.' 
(American  Notebooks,  vol.  i,  p.  203.) 

Another  American  poet,  Whittier.  had  also  thought 
of  writing  on  the  expulsion  of  the  Acadians:  'Before 
Longfellow  considered  the  matter  of  writing  "  Evange- 
line," Whittier  had  made  a  study  of  the  history  of  the 
banishment  of  the  Acadians,  and  had  intended  to  write 
upon  it,  but  he  put  it  off  until  he  found  that  Hawthorne 
was  thinking  about  it,  and  had  suggested  it  to  Long- 
fellow. After  the  appearance  of  "  Evangeline,"  Mr. 
Whittier  was  glad  of  his  delay,  for  he  said  :  "Long- 
fellow was  just  the  one  to  write  it.  If  I  had  attempted 
it  I  should  have  spoiled  the  artistic  effect  of  the  poem 
by  my  indignation  at  the  treatment  of  the  exiles  by  the 
Colonial  Government."  '  (Pickard's  Life  of  Whittier, 
vol.  i,  p.  342).  See  also  Whittier's  poem,  '  Marguerite,' 
and  the  note  on  it. 

Whittier  welcomed  the  'Evangeline'  heartily  when 
it  appeared,  in  a  review  beginning '  Eureka  !  Here,  then, 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep- 
voiced  neighboring  ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers 
the  wail  of  the  forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval  ;  but  where 

are  the  hearts  that  beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the 
woodland  the  voice  of  the  huntsman? 

we  have  it  at  last,  —  an  American  poem,  with  the  lack 
of  which  British  reviewers  have  so  long  reproached  us.' 
(Prose  Works,  vol.  iii,  p.  3C5.) 

The  historical  basis  which  Longfellow  used  for  his 
poem  was  somewhat  scanty :  '  For  the  history  of  the 
dispersion  of  the  Acadians  the  poet  read  such  books  as 
were  attainable ;  Haliburton,  for  instance,  with  his 
quotations  from  the  Abb<5  Raynal.  .  .  .  Later  investi- 
gations and  more  recent  publications  have  shown  that 
the  deportation  had  more  justification  than  had  been 
supposed;  that  some,  at  least,  of  the  Acadians,  so  far 
from  being  innocent  sufferers,  had  been  troublesome 
subjects  of  Great  Britain,  —  fomenting  insubordination 
and  giving  help  to  the  enemy.  But  if  the  expatriation 
was  necessary,  it  was  none  the  less  cruel,  and  involved 
in  suffering  many  who  were  innocent  of  wrong.'  (Life 
of  Longfellow,  vol.  ii,  p.  71.) 

The  exact  title  of  Haliburton's  book  spoken  of  above 
is  An  Historical  and  Statistical  A  ccouni  of  A  ova  Scotia. 
See  also,  on  the  poem,  its  subject,  and  its  historical  basis: 

Life,  vol.  ii,  pp.  26-140. 

Haiinay  (James),  The  History  of  Acadia. 

Journal  of  Colonel  John  Window,  in  the  Report  and 
Collections  of  the  Nova  Scotia  Historical  Society,  iii, 
71-196. 

Gayarre",  The  History  of  Louisiana. 

Anderson  (William  James),  '  Evangeline  '  and  '  The 
Archives  of  Nova  Scotia  ; '  or,  the  Poetry  and  Prose  of 
History.  Quebec,  1870. 

Porter  (Noah).  Evangeline,  the  place,  the  story,  and 
the  poem.  New  York,  1882. 

Sayler  (H.  L.)  The  Real  Evangeline.  In  the  Book- 
man, vol.  xviii,  p.  12  ;  September,  1903. 


Whittier :  Prose  Works,  vol.  iii,  pp. 

Chasles  (Philarete),  Etudes  sur  la  Literature  et  les 
Mcetirs  des  Anglo-americains  an  XIX™  Siecle,  1851. 

Longfellow  himself  never  visited  either  Nova  Scotia 
or  the  Mississippi.  He  actually  seems  to  have  got  some 
of  his  conceptions  from  a  diorama  of  the  Mississippi  ex- 
hibited in  Boston,  which  he  eagerly  went  to  see  while 
writing  the  poem  !  (Life,  vol.  ii,  pp.  67-68.)  He  also,  as 
seems  to  be  probable  from  letters  recently  published  in 
the  New  York  Times  (February  and  March,  1905)  wrote 
to  Mr.  fidouard  Simon  of  St.  Martinsville,  a  former 
student  at  the  Harvard  law  school,  with  whom  he  had 
discussed  the  expulsion  of  the  Acadians  from  Nova 
Scotia  and  their  settlement  in  Louisiana,  and  obtained 
from  him  a  description  of  the  country  along  the  Mis- 
sissippi where  they  settled. 

It  may  also  be  suggested  that  he  probably  obtained 
some  inspiration,  and  perhaps  a  great  deal,  from  Cha- 
teaubriand's descriptions  of  America,  especially  of  the 
primeval  forests  and  the  country  along  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi  rivers,  in  his  AM  a,  Rent,  and  Voyages. 
Longfellow  was  reading  Chateaubriand,  and  with  en- 
thusiasm, just  at  the  time  when  he  began  to  write 
'  Evangeline.'  (Life,  vol.  ii,  p.  27.) 

The  metre  of  '  Evangeline '  has  been  much  discussed. 
See  the  Life  of  Longfellow,  vol.  ii,  pp.  26,  36,  66,  76, 
107,  etc.  ;  Stedman's  Poets  of  America,  pp.  195-200 ; 
Scudder's  Life  of  Lowell,  vol.  ii,  p.  75,  and  Lowell's 
'  Fable  for  Critics ' ;  Holmes's  verdict,  quoted  in  the 
Life  of  LonofeUow,  vol.  iii,  pp.  339-340 ;  and  Matthew 
Arnold's  essays  On  Translating  Homer. 


Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the 
home  of  Acadian  farmers,  — 

Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that 
water  the  woodlands, 

Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflect- 
ing an  image  of  heaven  ? 

Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the 
farmers  forever  departed ! 

Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the 
mighty  blasts  of  October 

Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and 
sprinkle  them  far  o'er  the  ocean. 

Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beau- 
tiful village  of  Grand-Pre". 

Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes, 

and  endures,  and  is  patient, 
Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength 

of  woman's  devotion, 
List  to  the  mournful  tradition,  still  sung  by 

the  pines  of  the  forest; 
List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of 

the  happy. 


PART   THE    FIRST 


IN  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the 

Basin  of  Minas, 
Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of 

Grand  Pre" 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.    Vast  meadows 

stretched  to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to 

flocks  without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had 

raised  with  labor  incessant, 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides;  but  at  stated 

seasons  the  flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander 

at  will  o'er  the  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax, 

and  orchards  and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unf enced  o'er  the  plain ; 

and  away  to  the  northward 
Blomidon   rose,  and   the  forests   old,   and 

aloft  on  the  mountains  10 

Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from 

the  mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from 

their  station  descended. 
There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed 

the  Acadian  village. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


123 


Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames 

of  oak  and  of  hemlock, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  hi 

the  reign  of  the  Henries. 
Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-win- 
dows ;  and  gables  projecting 
Over  the  basement   below  protected    and 

shaded  the  doorway. 
There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer, 

when  brightly  the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the 

vanes  on  the  chimneys, 
Matrons   and   maidens   sat  in    snow-white 

caps  and  in  kirtles  20 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs 

spinning  the  golden 
Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy 

shuttles  within  doors 
Mingled  their  sounds  with  the  whir  of  the 

wheels  and  the  songs  of  the  maidens. 
Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish 

priest,  and  the  children 
Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he 

extended  to  bless  them. 
Reverend  walked  he  among  them;  and  up 

rose  matrons  and  maidens, 
Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of 

affectionate  welcome. 
Then   came   the   laborers  home  from  the 

field,  and  serenely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed. 

Anon  from  the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the 

roofs  of  the  village  30 

Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of 

incense  ascending, 
Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes 

of  peace  and  contentment. 
Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple 

Acadian  farmers,  — 
Dwelt   in   the   love   of   God  and  of  man. 

Alike  were  they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy, 

the  vice  of  republics. 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor 

bars  to  their  windows; 
But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and 

the  hearts  of  the  owners ; 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest 

lived  in  abundance. 

Somewhat  apart  from   the  village,  and 

nearer  the  Basin  of  Minas, 
Benedict     Bellefontaine,     the     wealthiest 
farmer  of  Grand-Pre",  40 


Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres;  and  with  him, 

directing  his  household, 
Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the 

pride  of  the  village. 
Stalwart  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man 

of  seventy  winters; 

Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  cov- 
ered with  snow-flakes; 
White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his 

cheeks  as  brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 
Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  sev- 
enteen summers. 
Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows 

on  the  thorn  by  the  wayside, 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath 

the  brown  shade  of  her  tresses  ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine 

that  feed  in  the  meadows. 
When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the 
reapers  at  noontide  50 

Flagons  of   home-brewed  ale,  ah  !   fair  in 

sooth  was  the  maiden. 
Fairer  was    she  when,    on    Sunday   morn, 

while  the  bell  from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the 

priest  with  his  hyssop 
Sprinkles   the   congregation,   and   scatters 

blessings  upon  them, 
Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her 

chaplet  of  beads  and  her  missal, 
Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle 

of  blue,  and  the  ear-rings, 
Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and 

since,  as  an  heirloom, 
Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through 

long  generations. 

But  a  celestial  brightness  —  a  more  ethe- 
real beauty  — 

Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form, 

when,  after  confession*  60 

Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's 

benediction  upon  her. 

When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the 
ceasing  of  exquisite  music. 

Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the 
house  of  the  farmer 

Stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill  commanding  the 
sea;  and  a  shady 

Sycamore  grew  by  the  door,  with  a  wood- 
bine wreathing  around  it. 

Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats 
beneath;  and  a  footpath 

Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disap 
peared  in  the  meadow 


I24 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Under  the  sycamore-tree  were  hives  over- 
hung by  a  penthouse, 

Such  as  the  traveller  sees  in  regions  remote 
by  the  roadside, 

Built  o'er  a  box  for  the  poor,  or  the  blessed 
image  of  Mary.  7o 

Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was 
the  well  with  its  moss-grown 

Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a 
trough  for  the  horses. 

Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the 
north,  were  the  barns  and  the  farm- 
yard. 

There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wains  and 
the  antique  ploughs  and  the  har- 
rows; 

There  were  the  folds  for  the  sheep;  and 
there,  in  his  feathered  seraglio, 

Strutted  the  lordly  turkey,  and  crowed  the 
cock,  with  the  selfsame 

Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the 
penitent  Peter. 

Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  them- 
selves a  village.  In  each  one 

Far  o'er  the  gable  projected  a  roof  of 
thatch;  and  a  staircase, 

Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the 
odorous  corn-loft.  80 

There  too  the  dove-cot  stood,  with  its  meek 
and  innocent  inmates 

Murmuring  ever  of  love;  while  above  in 
the  variant  breezes 

Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and 
sang  of  mutation. 

Thus,  at  peace  with  God  and  the  world, 

the  farmer  of  Grand-Pre' 
Lived  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline 

governed  his  household. 
Many  a  youth,  as  he  knelt  in  church  and 

opened  his  missal, 
Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  as  the  saint  of  his 

deepest  devotion; 
Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand 

or  the  hem  of  her  garment ! 
Many  a  suitor  came  to  her   door,  by  the 

darkness  befriended, 
And,  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the 

sound  of  her  footsteps,  90 

Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  his  heart 

or  the  knocker  of  iron; 
Or  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  Patron  Saint 

of  the  village, 
oolder  grew,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the 

dance  as  he  whispered 


Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a  part 
of  the  music. 

But,  among  all  who  came,  young  Gabriel 
only  was  welcome; 

Gabriel  Lajeunesse,  the  son  of  Basil  the 
blacksmith, 

Who  was  a  mighty  man  in  the  village,  and 
honored  of  all  men; 

For,  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all 
ages  and  nations, 

Has  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  held  in  re- 
pute by  the  people. 

Basil  was  Benedict's  friend.  Their  children 
from  earliest  childhood  100 

Grew  up  together  as  brother  and  sister;  and 
Father  Felician, 

Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the  village, 
had  taught  them  their  letters 

Out  of  the  selfsame  book,  with  the  hymns 
of  the  church  and  the  plain-song. 

But  when  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  daily 
lesson  completed, 

Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of 
Basil  the  blacksmith. 

There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wonder- 
ing eyes  to  behold  him 

Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the  horse 
as  a  plaything, 

Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place ;  while  near  him 
the  tire  of  the  cart-wheel 

Lay  like  a  fiery  snake,  coiled  roiind  in  a  cir- 
cle of  cinders. 

Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without  in  the 
gathering  darkness  1 10 

Bursting  with  light  seemed  the  smithy, 
through  every  cranny  and  crev- 
ice, 

Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched 
the  laboring  bellows, 

And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks 
expired  in  the  ashes, 

Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns 
going  into  the  chapel. 

Oft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the 
swoop  of  the  eagle, 

Down  the  hillside  bounding,  they  glided 
away  o'er  the  meadow. 

Oft  in  the  barns  they  climbed  to  the  popu- 
lous nests  on  the  rafters, 

Seeking  with  eager  eyes  that  wondrous 
stone,  which  the  swallow 

Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore 
the  sight  of  its  fledglings; 

Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone  in  the 
nest  of  the  swallow  !  t?.o 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


I25 


Thus  passed  a  few  swift  years,  and  they  no 

longer  were  children. 
He  was  a  valiant  youth,  and  his  face,  like 

the  face  of  the  morning, 
Gladdened   the  earth  with   its   light,  and 

ripened  thought  into  action. 
She  was  a  woman  now,  with  the  heart  and 

hopes  of  a  woman. 
'  Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie  '  was  she  called ; 

for  that  was  the  sunshine 
Which,  as  the  farmers  believed,  would  load 

their  orchards  with  apples ; 1 
She,  too,  would  bring  to  her  husband's  house 

delight  and  abundance, 
Filling  it  with  love  and  the  ruddy  faces  of 

children. 


Now  had  the  season  returned,  when  the 
nights  grow  colder  and  longer, 

And  the  retreating  sun  the  sign  of  the  Scor- 
pion enters.  130 

Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden 
air,  from  the  ice-bound, 

Desolate  northern  bays  to  the  shores  of  trop- 
ical islands. 

Harvests  were  gathered  in;  and  wild  with 
the  winds  of  September 

Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob 
of  old  with  the  angel. 

All  the  signs  foretold  a  winter  long  and  in- 
*  clement. 

Bees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had 
hoarded  their  honey 

Till  the  hives  overflowed;  and  the  Indian 
hunters  asserted 

Cold  would  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the 
fur  of  the  foxes. 

Such  was  the  advent  of  autumn.  Then  fol- 
lowed that  beautiful  season, 

Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the 
Summer  of  All-Saints  !  140 

Filled  was  the  air  with  a  dreamy  and  magi- 
cal light;  and  the  landscape 

Lay  as  if  new-created  in  all  the  freshness  of 
childhood. 

Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the 
restless  heart  of  the  ocean 

Was  for  a  moment  consoled.  All  sounds 
were  in  harmony  blended. 

Voices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of 
cocks  in  the  farm-yards, 

1  From  the  old  Norman-French  proverb :  — 

was 


Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the 

cooing  of  pigeons, 
All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs 

of  love,  and  the  great  sun 
Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the 

golden  vapors  around  him; 
While  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and 

scarlet  and  yellow, 
Bright  with   the   sheen  of   the  dew,  each 

glittering  tree  of  the  forest  150 

Flashed   like   the   plane-tree   the   Persian 

adorned    with    mantles    and     jew- 
els.2 

Now  recommenced  the  reign  of  rest  and 

affection  and  stillness. 
Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed, 

and  twilight  descending 
Brought  back  the  evening  star  to  the  sky, 

and  the  herds  to  the  homestead. 
Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting 

their  necks  on  each  other, 
And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling 

the  freshness  of  evening. 
Foremost,  bearing  the    bell,  Evangeline's 

beautiful  heifer, 

Proud  of  her  snow-white  hide,  and  the  rib- 
bon that  waved  from  her  collar, 
Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of 

human  affection. 
Then   came   the    shepherd   back   with   his 

bleating  flocks  from  the  seaside,    160 
Where  was  their  favorite  pasture.     Behind 

them  followed  the  watch-dog, 
Patient,  full  of  importance,  and  grand  in  the 

pride  of  his  instinct, 
Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a  lordly  air, 

and  superbly 
Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward 

the  stragglers; 
Regent  of  flocks  was  he  when  the  shepherd 

slept;  their  protector, 
When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through  the 

starry  silence  the  wolves  howled. 
Late,  with  the  rising  moon,  returned  the 

wains  from  the  marshes, 
Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  filled  the  air 

with  its  odor. 
Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on 

their  manes  and  their  fetlocks, 
While  aloft  on  their  shoulders  the  wooden 

and  ponderous  saddles,  170 

Painted  with   brilliant  dyes,  and   adorned 

with  tassels  of  crimson, 
2  See  Evelyn's  Silva,  ii,  53.     (LONGFELLOW.) 


126 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks 
heavy  with  blossoms. 

Patiently  stood  the  cows  meanwhile,  and 
yielded  their  udders 

Unto  the  milkmaid's  hand;  whilst  loud  and 
in  regular  cadence 

Into  the  sounding  pails  the  foaming  stream- 
lets descended. 

Lowing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter  were 
heard  in  the  farm-yard, 

Echoed  back  by  the  barns.  Anon  they 
sank  into  stillness; 

Heavily  closed,  with  a  jarring  sound,  the 
valves  of  the  barn-doors, 

Rattled  the  wooden  bars,  and  all  for  a  sea- 
son was  silent. 

In -doors,  warm  by  the  wide -mouthed 

fireplace,  idly  the  farmer  180 

Sat  in  his  elbow-chair  and  watched  how  the 

flames  and  the  smoke-wreaths 
Struggled  together  like  foes  in  a  burning 

city.     Behind  him, 
Nodding  and  mocking  along  the  wall,  with 

gestures  fantastic, 
Darted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  vanished 

away  into  darkness. 
Faces,  clumsily  carved  in  oak,  on  the  back 

of  his  arm-chair 
Laughed  in  the  flickering  light;  and  the 

pewter  plates  on  the  dresser 
Caught  and  reflected  the  flame,  as  shields 

of  armies  the  sunshine. 
Fragments  of  song  the  old  man  sang,  and 

carols  of  Christmas, 
Such   as  at  home,  in  the  olden  time,  his 

fathers  before  him 
Sang  in  their  Norman  orchards  and  bright 

Burgundian  vineyards.  190 

Close  at  her  father's  side  was  the  gentle 

Evangeline  seated, 
Spinning  flax  for  the  loom,  that  stood  in 

the  corner  behind  her. 
Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  rest  was 

its  diligent  shuttle, 
While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel, 

like  the  drone  of  a  bagpipe, 
Followed  the  old  man's  song  and  united  the 

fragments  together. 
As  in  a  church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir 

at  intervals  ceases, 
Footfalls  are  heard  in  the  aisles,  or  words 

of  the  priest  at  the  altar, 
So,  in  each  pause  of  the  song,  with   mea- 
sured motion  the  clock  clicked. 


Thus  as  they  sat,  there  were  footsteps 

heard,  and,  suddenly  lifted, 
Sounded   the   wooden  latch,  and  the  door 

swung  back  on  its  hinges.  200 

Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it 

was  Basil  the  blacksmith, 
And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew 

who  was  with  him. 
'  Welcome  ! '  the  farmer  exclaimed,  as  their 

footsteps     paused     on     the     thres- 
hold, 
'  Welcome,  Basil,  my  friend  !   Come,  take 

thy  place  on  the  settle 
Close  by  the  chimney-side,  which  is  always 

empty  without  thee; 
Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thy  pipe  and 

the  box  of  tobacco; 
Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as  when 

through  the  curling 
Smoke  of  the  pipe  or  the  forge  thy  friendly 

and  jovial  face  gleams 
Round  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through 

the  mist  of  the  marshes.' 
Then,  with   a   smile  of    content,  thus  an- 
swered Basil  the  blacksmith,          710 
Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat 

by  the  fireside  :  — 
'  Benedict  Bellefontaine,  thou  hast  ever  thy 

jest  and  thy  ballad  ! 
Ever  in  cheerfullest  mood  art  thou,  when 

others  are  filled  with 
Gloomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see  only  ruin 

before  them. 
Happy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst 

picked  up  a  horseshoe.' 
Pausing  a  moment,  to  take  the  pipe  that 

Evangeline  brought  him, 
And    with   a   coal    from   the   embers   had 

lighted,  he  slowly  continued  :  — 
'  Four  days  now  are  passed  since  the  Eng- 
lish ships  at  their  anchors 
Ride  in  the  Gaspereau's  mouth,  with  their 

cannon  pointed  against  us. 
What  their  design  may  be  is  unknown;  but 

all  are  commanded  220 

On  the   morrow   to-  meet   in   the  church, 

where  his  Majesty's  mandate 
Will    be    proclaimed   as  law  in  the  land. 

Alas  !  in  the  mean  time 
Many  surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of 

the  people.' 
Then  made  answer  the  farmer  :  '  Perhaps 

some  friendlier  purpose 
Brings  these  ships  to  our  shores.    Perhaps 

the  harvests  in  England 


HENRY   VVADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


127 


Jjy  untimely  rains  or  untimelier  heat  have 

been  blighted, 
And  from  our  bursting  barns  they  would 

feed  their  cattle  and  children.' 
'  Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village,' 

said,  warmly,  the  blacksmith, 
Shaking  his  head,  as  in  doubt;  then,  heav- 
ing a  sigh,  he  continued  :  — 
'  Louisburg  is  not  forgotten,  nor  Beau  Sc?- 

jour,  nor  Port  Royal.  230 

Many  already  have  fled  to  the  forest,  and 

lurk  on  its  outskirts, 
Waiting  with  anxious  hearts   the  dubious 

fate  of  to-morrow. 

Arms  have  been  taken  from  us,  and  war- 
like weapons  of  all  kinds; 
Nothing  is  left  but  the  blacksmith's  sledge 

and  the  scythe  of  the  mower.' 
Then  with  a  pleasant  smile  made  answer  the 

jovial  farmer  :  — 
'  Safer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our 

flocks  and  our  cornfields, 
Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes,  besieged 

by  the  ocean, 
Than  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the 

enemy's  cannon. 
Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may 

no  shadow  of  sorrow 
Fall  on  this  house  and  earth;  for  this  is  the 

night  of  the  contract.  240 

Built   are   the   house  and   the   barn.    The 

merry  lads  of  the  village 
Strongly  have   built  them  and  well;  and, 

breaking  the  glebe  round  about  them, 
Filled  the  barn  with  hay,  and  the  house 

with  food  for  a  twelvemonth. 
Rene"  Leblauc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his 

papers  and  inkhorn. 
Shall  we  not  then  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the 

joy  of  our  children  ? ' 
As  apart  by  the  window  she  stood,  with  her 

hand  in  her  lover's, 
Blushing  Evangeliue  heard  the  words  that 

her  father  had  spoken, 
And,  as  they  died  on  his  lips,  the  worthy 

notary  entered. 


Bent  like  a  laboring  oar,  that  toils  in  the 

surf  of  the  ocean, 
Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  was  the  form 

of  the  notary  public;  250 

Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss 

of  the  maize,  hung 


Over  his  shoulders;  his  forehead  was  high: 

and  glasses  with  horn  bows 
Sat  astride  on  his  nose,  with  a  look  of  wis- 
dom supernal. 
Father  of  twenty  children  was  he,  and  more 

than  a  hundred 
Children's  children  rode  on  his  knee,  and 

heard  his  great  watch  tick. 
Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war  had 

he  languished  a  captive, 
Suffering  much  in  an  old  French  fort  as  the 

friend  of  the  English. 
Now,   though   warier   grown,   without   all 

guile  or  suspicion, 
Ripe  in  wisdom  was  he,  but  patient,  and 

simple,  and  childlike. 
He  was  beloved  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by 

the  children;  260 

For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou 

in  the  forest, 
And  of  the  goblin  that  came  in  the  night  to 

water  the  horses, 
And  of  the  white  Le'tiche,  the  ghost  of  a 

child  who  unchristened 
Died,  and  was  doomed  to  haunt  unseen  the 

chambers  of  children; 
And  how  on  Christmas  eve  the  oxen  talked 

in  the  stable, 
And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a  spider 

shut  up  in  a  nutshell, 

And   of   the   marvellous   powers   of   four- 
leaved  clover  and  horseshoes, 
With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in  the  lore 

of  the  village. 
Then  up  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside 

Basil  the  blacksmith, 
Knocked  from  his  pipe  the  ashes,  and  slowly 

extending  his  right  hand,  270 

'Father    Leblanc,'    he    exclaimed,    'thou 

hast    heard    the    talk    in    the   vil- 
lage, 
And,  perchance,  canst  tell  us  some  news  of 

these  ships  and  their  errand.' 
Then  with  modest  demeanor  made  answer 

the  notary  public,  — 
'  Gossip  enough  have  I  heard,  in  sooth,  yet 

.  am  never  the  wiser; 
And  what  their  errand  may  be  I  know  not 

better  than  others. 
Yet  am  I  not  of  those  who  imagine  some 

evil  intention 
Brings  them  here,  for  we  are  at  peace ;  and 

why  then  molest  us  ?  ' 
'  God's    name  ! '    shouted    the    hasty    and 

somewhat  irascible  blacksmith; 


128 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


'Must  we  in  all  things  look  fpr  the  how, 

and     the     why,    and     the     where- 
fore ? 
Daily  injustice  is  done,  and  might  is  the 

right  of  the  strongest ! '  280 

But  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued 

the  notary  public,  — 
'  Man  is  unjust,  but  God  is  just;  and  finally 

justice 
Triumphs;  and  well  I  remember  a  story, 

that  often  consoled  me, 
When  as  a  captive  I  lay  in  the  old  French 

fort  at  Port  Royal.' 
This  was  the  old  man's  favorite  tale,  and 

he  loved  to  repeat  it 
When  his  neighbors  complained  that  any 

injustice  was  done  them. 
'  Once  iu  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I  no 

longer  remember, 
Raised  aloft  on  a  column,  a  brazen  statue 

of  Justice 
Stood  in  the  public  square,  upholding  the 

scales  in  its  left  hand, 
And  in  its  right  a  sword,  as  an  emblem  that 

justice  presided  290 

Over  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  the  hearts 

and  homes  of  the  people. 
Even  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the 

scales  of  the  balance, 
Having  no  fear  of  the  sword  that  flashed  in 

the  sunshine  above  them. 
But  in  the  course  of  time  the  laws  of  the 

land  were  corrupted; 
Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak 

were  oppressed,  and  the  mighty 
Ruled  with  an  iron  rod.     Then  it  chanced 

in  a  nobleman's  palace 

That  a  necklace  of  pearls  was  lost,  and  ere- 
long a  suspicion 
Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  a  maid 

in  the  household. 
She,  after  form  of  trial  condemned  to  die 

on  the  scaffold, 
Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the 

statue  of  Justice.  3oo 

As  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent 

spirit  ascended, 
Lo !  o'er  the  city  a  tempest  rose ;  and  the 

bolts  of  the  thunder 
Smote  the  statue  of  bronze,  and  hurled  in 

wrath  from  its  left  hand 
Down  on  the  pavement  below  the  clattering 

scales  of  the  balance, 
And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the 

nest  of  a  masrpie. 


Into  whose  clay-built  walls  the  necklace  of 
pearls  was  inwoven.' 

Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story 
was  ended,  the  blacksmith 

Stood  like  a  man  who  fain  would  speak, 
but  findeth  no  language; 

All  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines 
on  his  face,  as  the  vapors 

Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window- 
panes  in  the  winter.  310 

Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp 

on  the  table, 
Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the  pewter  tankard 

with  home-brewed 
Nut-brown   ale,   that   was   famed   for   its 

strength   in  the  village    of   Grand- 

Pre"; 
While  from  his  pocket  the  notary  drew  his 

papers  and  inkhorn, 
Wrote  with  a  steady  hand  the  date  and  the 

age  of  the  parties, 
Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of 

sheep  and  in  cattle. 
Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and 

well  were  completed, 
And  the  great  seal  of  the  law  was  set  like 

a  sun  on  the  margin. 
Then  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer 

threw  on  the  table 
Three   times   the   old   man's   fee  in  solid 

pieces  of  silver;  32o 

And   the   notary  rising,  and   blessing   the 

bride  and  the  bridegroom, 
Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank 

to  their  welfare. 
Wiping  the  foam  from  his  lip,  he  solemnly 

bowed  and  departed, 
While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused 

by  the  fireside, 
Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board 

out  of  its  corner. 
Soon  was   the   game   begun.     In  friendly 

contention  the  old  men 
Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit,  or  unsuccessful 

manoauvre, 
Laughed  when  a  man  was  crowned,  or  a 

breach    was     made     in    the    king- 
row. 
Meanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of 

a  window's  embrasure, 
Sat  the  lovers,  and  whispered  together,  be- 
holding the  moon  rise  330 
Over  the  pallid  sea,  and  the  silvery  mists 

of  the  meadows. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


129 


Silently  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows 
of  heaven, 

Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me- 
nots  of  the  angels. 

Thus  was  the  evening  passed.     Anon  the 

bell  from  the  belfry 

Rang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  cur- 
few, and  straightway 
Rose  the  guests  and  departed;  and  silence 

reigned  in  the  household. 
Many  a   farewell  word   and   sweet   good- 
night on  the  door-step 
Lingered  long  in  Evangeline's  heart,  and 

filled  it  with  gladness. 
Carefully  then  were   covered  the   embers 

that  glowed  on  the  hearth-stone, 
And   on  the   oaken   stairs   resounded   the 

tread  of  the  farmer.  340 

Soon  with   a   soundless   step   the   foot   of 

Evangel  ine  followed. 
Up  the  staircase  moved  a  luminous  space 

in  the  darkness, 
Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining 

face  of  the  maiden. 
Silent  she  passed  the  hall,  and  entered  the 

door  of  her  chamber. 
Simple  that  chamber  was,  with  its  curtains 

of  white,  and  its  clothes-press 
Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves 

were  carefully  folded 
Linen  and  woollen  stuffs,  by  the  hand  of 

Evangeline  woven. 
This  was   the   precious   dower   she  would 

bring     to     her     husband    in    mar- 
riage, 
Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs 

of  her  skill  as  a  housewife. 
Soon  she  extinguished  her   lamp,  for   the 

mellow  and  radiant  moonlight       350 
Streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lighted 

the    room,   till    the    heart   of    the 

maiden 
Swelled   and   obeyed   its   power,  like   the 

tremulous  tides  of  the  ocean. 
Ah  !  she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold, 

as  she  stood  with 
Naked  snow-white    feet   on   the  gleaming 

floor  of  her  chamber  ! 
Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the 

trees  of  the  orchard, 
Waited   her   lover    and    watched   for   the 

gleam  of  her  lamp  and  her  shadow. 
Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  at  times 

a  feeling  of  sadness 


Passed  o'er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of 

clouds  in  the  moonlight 
Flitted  across  the  floor  and  darkened  the 

room  for  a  moment. 
And,  as  she  gazed  from  the  window,  she 

saw  serenely  the  moon  pass  360 

Forth  from  the  folds  of  a  cloud,  and  one 

star  follow  her  footsteps, 
As  out  of  Abraham's  tent  young  Ishmael 

wandered  with  Hagar  ! 


Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the 

village  of  Grand  Pre'. 
Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air 

the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  sha- 
dows, were  riding  at  anchor. 
Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and 

clamorous  labor 
Knocked   with   its    hundred   hands  at  the 

golden  gates  of  the  morning. 
Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the 

farms  and  neighboring  hamlets, 
Came  in  their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe 

Acadian  peasants. 
Many  a    glad    good-morrow   and    jocund 

laugh  from  the  young  folk  37o 

Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from 

the  numerous  meadows, 
Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track 

of  wheels  in  the  greensward, 
Group  after  group  appeaiwd,  and  joined,  or 

passed  on  the  highway. 
Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of 

labor  were  silenced. 
Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people ;  and 

noisy  groups  at  the  house-doors 
Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and 

gossipped  together. 
Every  house   was  an  inn,  where  all  were 

welcomed  and  feasted; 
For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like 

brothers  together, 
All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what 

one  had  was  another's. 
Yet  under  Benedict's  roof  hospitality  seemed 

more  abundant:  380 

For  Evaugeline  stood  among  the  guests  of 

her  father; 
Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words 

of  welcome  and  gladness 
Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed 

the  cup  as  she  gavo  it. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of 

the  orchard, 
Stript  of  its  golden  fruit,  was  spread  the 

feast  of  betrothal. 
There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the 

priest  and  the  notary  seated; 
There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil 

the  blacksmith. 
Not   far   withdrawn   from    these,   by    the 

cider-press  and  the  beehives, 
Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the 

gayest  of  hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 
Shadow  and   light  from  the  leaves  alter- 
nately played  on  his  snow-white    39o 
Hair,  as  it  waved'in  the  wind;  and  the  jolly 

face  of  the  fiddler 
Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes 

are  blown  from  the  embers. 
Gayly  the   old   man  sang   to   the   vibrant 

sound  of  his  fiddle, 
Tous   les   Bourgeois   de    Chartres,  and    Le 

Carillon  de  Dunquerque, 
And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time 

to  the  music. 
Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the 

dizzying  dances 
Under  the  orchard-trees  and  down  the  path 

to  the  meadows; 
Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children 

mingled  among  them. 
Fairest  of  all  the  maids  was  Evangeline, 

Benedict's  daughter ! 
Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son 

of  the  blacksmith  !  4<x> 

So  passed  the  morning  away.   And  lo  ! 

with  a  summons  sonorous 
Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over 

the  meadows  a  drum  beat. 
Thronged  erelong  was  the  church  with  men. 

Without,  in  the  churchyard, 
Waited   the   women.    They   stood   by  the 

graves,  and  hung  on  the  headstones 
Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens 

fresh  from  the  forest. 
Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and 

marching  proudly  among  them 
Entered  the  sacred  portal.    With  loud  and 

dissonant  clangor 
Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums 

from  ceiling  and  casement,  — 
Echoed   a   moment   only,  and   slowly   the 

ponderous  portal 
Closed,  and  in   silence  the  crowd  awaited 

the  will  of  the  soldiers.  4u> 


Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake 

from  the  steps  of  the  altar, 
Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals, 

the  royal  commission. 
'  You  are  convened  this  day,'  he  said, '  by 

his  Majesty's  orders. 
Clement  and  kind  has  he  been;  but  how 

you  have  answered  his  kindness, 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply  !     To  my  nat- 
ural make  and  my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you  I 

know  must  be  grievous. 
Yet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the 

will  of  our  monarch; 
Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and  dwellings, 

and  cattle  of  all  kinds 
Forfeited  be  to  the  crown;  and  that  you 

yourselves  from  this  province 
Be  transported  to  other  lands.     God  grant 

you  may  dwell  there  42o 

Ever   as   faithful    subjects,   a   happy   and 

peaceable  people  ! 
Prisoners  now  I  declare  you;  for  such  is 

his  Majesty's  pleasure  !  ' 
As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  sultry  solstice 

of  summer, 
Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly 

sling  of  the  hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  corn  in  the  field 

and  shatters  his  windows, 
Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground 

with  thatch  from  the  house-roofs, 
Bellowing  fly  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break 

their  enclosures; 
So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the 

words  of  the  speaker. 
Silent  a  moment  they  stood  in  speechless 

wonder,  and  then  rose 
Louder  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of  sorrow 

and  anger,  430 

And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly 

rushed  to  the  door-way. 
Vain  was1  the  hope  of  escape ;  and  cries  and 

fierce  imprecations 
Rang   through   the   house  of  prayer;  and 

high  o'er  the  heads  of  the  others 
Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of 

Basil  the  blacksmith, 
As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a  spar  is  tossed  by  the 

billows. 
Flushed  was  his  face  and   distorted  with 

passion ;  and  wildly  he  shouted,  — 
'  Down    with    the    tyrants    of     England ! 

we   never   have    sworn    them   alle-- 

giance  ! 


HENRY   WADSVVORTH    LONGFELLOW 


Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  seize 
on  our  homes  arid  our  harvests  ! ' 

More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the 
merciless  hand  of  a  soldier 

Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged 
him  down  to  the  pavement.  440 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of 
angry  contention, 

Lo  !  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and 
Father  Felician 

Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  altar. 

Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture 
he  awed  into  silence 

All  that  clamorous  throng;  and  thus  he 
spake  to  his  people; 

Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn;  in  accents 
measured  and  mournful 

Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin's  alarum,  dis- 
tinctly the  clock  strikes. 

'What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  chil- 
dren ?  what  madness  has  seized 
you? 

Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I  labored 
among  you,  and  taught  you, 

Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one 
another  !  450 

Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils 
and  prayers  and  privations  ? 

Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of 
love  and  forgiveness  ? 

This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
and  would  you  profane  it 

Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  over- 
flowing with  hatred  ? 

Lo  !  where  the  crucified  Christ  from  his 
cross  is  gazing  upon  you  ! 

See  !  in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meek- 
ness and  holy  compassion ! 

Hark !  how  those  lips  still  repeat  the 
prayer,  "  O  Father,  forgive  them  !  " 

Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when 
the  wicked  assail  us, 

Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  "  O  Father, 
forgive  them  !  "  ' 

Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in 
the  hearts  of  his  people  460 

Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded 
the  passionate  outbreak, 

While  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said, 
'  O  Father,  forgive  them  ! ' 

Then  came  the  evening  service.  The 
tapers  gleamed  from  the  altar. 


Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice  of  the 
priest,  and  the  people  responded, 

Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts; 
and  the  Ave  Maria 

Sang  they,  and  fell  on  their  knees,  and 
their  souls,  with  devotion  trans- 
lated, 

Rose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah 
ascending  to  heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the 
tidings  of  ill,  and  on  all  sides 

Wandered,  wailing,  from  house  to  house 
the  women  and  children. 

Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline  stood, 
with  her  right  hand  470 

Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of 
the  sun,  that,  descending, 

Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious 
splendor,  and  roofed  each 

Peasant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and 
emblazoned  its  windows. 

Long  within  had  been  spread  the  snow- 
white  cloth  on  the  table; 

There  stood  the  wheaten  loaf,  and  the 
honey  fragrant  with  wild -flow- 
ers; 

There  stood  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the 
cheese  fresh  brought  from  the  dairy, 

And,  at  the  head  of  the  board,  the  great 
arm-chair  of  the  farmer. 

Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's 
door,  as  the  sunset 

Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o'er  the 
broad  ambrosial  meadows. 

Ah  !  on  her  spirit  within  a  deeper  shadow 
had  fallen,  4s0 

And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a  fragrance 
celestial  ascended,  — 

Charity,  meekness,  love,  and  hope,  and  for- 
giveness, and  patience  ! 

Then,  all-forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered 
into  the  village, 

Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  mourn- 
ful hearts  of  the  women, 

As  o'er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering 
steps  they  departed, 

Urged  by  their  household  cares,  and  the 
weary  feet  of  their  children. 

Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden, 
glimmering  vapors 

Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  Prophet 
descending  from  Sinai. 

Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the 
Angelus  sounded. 


I32 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Meanwhile,  amid  the  gloom,  by  the 
church  Evangeline  lingered.  49o 

All  was  silent  within;  and  in  vain  at  the 
door  and  the  windows 

Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  till, 
overcome  by  emotion, 

'  Gabriel  ! '  cried  she  aloud  with  tremulous 
voice;  but  no  answer 

Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead,  nor  the 
gloomier  grave  of  the  living. 

Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenant- 
less  house  of  her  father. 

Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the 
board  was  the  supper  untasted, 

Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and 
haunted  with  phantoms  of  terror. 

Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the 
floor  of  her  chamber. 

In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  dis- 
consolate ram  fall 

Load  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  syca- 
more-tree by  the  window.  5oo 

Keenly  the  lightning  flashed;  and  the  voice 
of  the  echoing  thunder 

Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and  gov- 
erned the  world  He  created  ! 

Then  she,  remembered  the  tale  she  had 
heard  of  the  justice  of  Heaven; 

Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she 
peacefully  slumbered  till  morning. 


Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set;  and 

now  on  the  fifth  day 
Cheerily   called   the   cock  to  the  sleeping 

maids  of  the  farm-house. 
Soon  o'er   the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and 

mournful  procession, 
Came  from  the  neighboring  hamlets  and 

farms  the  Acadian  women, 
Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household 

goods  to  the  sea-shore, 
Pausing  and   looking   back   to   gaze   once 

more  on  their  dwellings,  510 

Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  wind- 
ing road  and  the  woodland. 
Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and 

urged  on  the  oxen, 
While  in  their   little  hands   they   clasped 

some  fragments  of  playthings. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  they 
hurried;  and  there  on  the  sea- 
beach 


Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods 

of  the  peasants. 
All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the 

ships  did  the  boats  ply; 
All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down 

from  the  village. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was 

near  to  his  setting, 
Echoed  far  o'er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of 

drums  from  the  churchyard. 
Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged. 

On  a  sudden  the  church-doors       520 
Opened,  and   forth  came  the  guard,  and 

marching  in  gloomy  procession 
Followed  the  long-imprisoned,  but  patient, 

Acadian  farmers. 
Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from 

their  homes  and  their  country, 
Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they 

are  weary  and  wayworn, 
So  with  songs  on  their   lips  the  Acadian 

peasants  descended 
Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid 

their  wives  and  their  daughters. 
Foremost  the  young  men  came;  and,  raising 

together  their  voices, 
Sang  with  tremulous  lips  a  chant  of  the 

Catholic  Missions:  — 

'  Sacred   heart   of   the    Saviour !  O     inex- 
haustible fountain  ! 
Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and 

submission  and  patience  ! '  53o 

Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and  the 

%vomen  that  stood  by  the  wayside 
Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds  in 

the  sunshine  above  them 
Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices 

of  spirits  departed. 

Half-way  down  to  the  shore  Evaugeline 
waited  in  silence, 

Not  overcome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the 
hour  of  affliction,  — 

Calmly  and  sadly  she  waited,  until  the  pro- 
cession approached  her, 

And  she  beheld  the  face  of  Gabriel  pale 
with  emotion. 

Tears  then  filled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  run- 
ning to  meet  him, 

Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  and  whispered,  — 

'  Gabriel !  be  of  good  cheer  !  for  if  we  love 
one  another  540 

Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  us,  whatever 
mischances  may  happen  ! ' 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'33 


Smiling  she  spake  these  words;  then  sud- 
denly paused,  for  her  father 

Saw  she  slowly  advancing.  Alas  !  how 
changed  was  his  aspect ! 

Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  cheek,  and  the 
fire  from  his  eye,  and  his  footstep 

Heavier  seemed  with  the  weight  of  the 
heavy  heart  in  his  bosom. 

But  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  she  clasped 
his  neck  and  embraced  him, 

Speaking  words  of  endearment  where  words 
of  comfort  availed  not. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  moved  on 
that  mournful  procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult 
and  stir  of  embarking. 

Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats;  and  in  the 
confusion  SSo 

Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and 
mothers,  too  late,  saw  their  children 

Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with 
wildest  entreaties. 

So  nnto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Ga- 
briel carried, 

While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline 
stood  with  her  father. 

Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun 
went-  down,  and  the  twilight 

Deepened  and  darkened  around;  and  in 
haste  the  refluent  ocean 

Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line 
of  the  sand-beach 

Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp 
and  the  slippery  sea-weed. 

Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household 
goods  and  the  wagons, 

Like  to  a  gypsy  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a 
battle,  560 

All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sen- 
tinels near  them, 

Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless 
Acadian  farmers. 

Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the 
bellowing  ocean, 

Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling 
pebbles,  and  leaving 

Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded 
boats  of  the  sailors. 

Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  re- 
turned from  their  pastures; 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor 
of  milk  from  their  udders ; 

Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well- 
known  bars  of  the  farm-yard,  — 


Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice 
and  the  hand  of  the  milk-maid. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  streets;  from  the 
church  no  Angelus  sounded,  570 

Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed 
no  lights  from  the  windows. 

But  on  the  shores  meanwhile  the  evening 

fires  had  been  kindled, 
Built   of    the   drift-wood    thrown    on   the 

sands    from    wrecks    in    the    tem- 
pest. 
Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful 

faces  were  gathered, 
Voices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men, 

and  tha  crying  of  children. 
Onward  from  fire  to  fire,  as  from  hearth  to 

hearth  in  his  parish, 
Wandered  the  faithful  priest,  consoling  and 

blessing  and  cheering, 
Like    unto  shipwrecked   Paul  on  Melita's 

desolate  sea-shore. 

Thus  he  approached  the  place  where  Evan- 
geline sat  with  her  father, 
And  in  the  flickering  light  beheld  the  face 

of  the  old  man,  580 

Haggard  and  hollow  and  wan,  and  without 

either  thought  or  emotion, 
E'en  as  the  face  of  a  clock  from  which  the 

hands  have  been  taken. 
Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and 

caresses  to  cheer  him, 
Vainly  offered  him  food ;  yet  he  moved  not, 

he  looked  not,  he  spake  not, 
But,  with  a  vacant  stare,  ever  gazed  at  the 

flickering  fire-light. 
'  Benedicite .' '  murmured  the  priest,  in  tones 

of  compassion. 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  his  heart 

was  full,  and  his  accents 
Faltered   and   paused   on   his   lips,  as  the 

feet  of  a  child  on  a  threshold, 
Hushed  by  the  scene  he  beholds,  and  the 

awful  presence  of  sorrow. 
Silently,  therefore,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 

head  of  the  maiden,  590 

Raising  his  tearful  eyes  to  the  silent  stars 

that  above  them 
Moved  on  their  way,  unperturbed  by  the 

wrongs  and  sorrows  of  mortals. 
Then  sat  he  down  at  her   side,  and  they 

wept  together  in  silence. 

Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as 
in  autumn  the  blood-red 


'34 


CHIEF  AMERICAN    POETS 


Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven, 

and  o'er  the  horizon 
Titan-like  stretches  its  hundred  hands  upon 

the  mountain  and  meadow, 
Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers  and  piling 

huge  shadows  together. 
Broader  and  ever   broader  it  gleamed  on 

the  roofs  of  the  village, 
Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  sea,  and  the  ships 

that  lay  in  the  roadstead. 
Columns   of    shining    smoke   uprose,   and 

flashes  of  flame  were  600 

Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn, 

like  the  quivering  hands  of  a  mar- 
tyr. 
Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the 

burning  thatch,  and,  uplifting, 
Whirled   them   aloft   through    the  air,  at 

once  from  a  hundred  house-tops 
Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of 

flame  intermingled. 

These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd 
on  the  shore  and  on  shipboard. 

Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried 
aloud  in  their  anguish, 

*  We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in 
the  village  of  Grand-Pre1  ! ' 

Loud  on  a  sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow 
in  the  farm-yards, 

Thinking  the  day  had  dawned;  and  anon 
the  lowing  of  cattle 

Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  bark- 
ing of  dogs  interrupted.  610 

Then  rose  a  sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles 
the  sleeping  encampments 

Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that 
skirt  the  Nebraska, 

When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep 
by  with  the  speed  of  the  whirl- 
wind, 

Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes 
rush  to  the  river. 

Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night, 
as  the  herds  and  the  horses 

Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and 
madly  rushed  o'er  the  meadows. 

Overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  yet  speech- 
less, the  priest  and  the  maiden 

Gazed  on  the  scene  of  terror  that  reddened 
and  widened  before  them: 

And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak  to 
their  silent  companion, 


I   Lo !     from    his   seat   he    had    fallen,   and 
stretched  abroad  on  the  sea-shore 

Motionless  lay  his  form,  from  which  the 
soul  had  departed.  621 

Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head, 

and  the  maiden 

]  Knelt  at  her  father's  side,  and  wailed  aloud 
in  her  terror. 

Then  in  a  swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her 
head  on  his  bosom. 

Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep,  ob- 
livious slumber; 

And  when  she  awoke  from  the  trance,  she 
beheld  a  multitude  near  her. 

Faces   of   friends   she   beheld,   that    were 
mournfully  gazing  upon  her, 

Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  looks  of  sad- 
dest compassion. 

Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illu- 
mined the  landscape, 

Reddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed 
on  the  faces  around  her,  630 

And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  her 
wavering  senses. 

Then  a  familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said 
to  the  people, — 

'  Let  us  bury  him  here  by  the  sea.     WThen 
a  happier  season 

Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  un- 
known land  of  our  exile, 

Then  shall  his  sacred  dust  be  piously  laid 
in  the  churchyard.' 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest.     And 
there  in  haste  by  the  sea-side, 

Having  the  glare  of  the  burning  village  for 
funeral  torches, 

But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the 
farmer  of  Grand-Pre'. 

And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the 
service  of  sorrow, 

Lo  !  with  a  mournful  sound,  like  the  voice 
of  a  vast  congregation,  640 

Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its 
roar  with  the  dirges. 

'T  was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from 
the  waste  of  the  ocean, 

With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heav- 
ing and  hurrying  landward. 

Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and 
noise  of  embarking; 

And   with   the   ebb   of  the  tide  the  ships 
sailed  out  of  the  harbor, 

Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,, 
and  the  village  in  ruins. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


'35 


PART   THE   SECOND 

I 

MANY  a  weary  year  had  passed  since  the 

burning  of  Grand-Pre", 

When  on  the  falling  tide  the  freighted  ves- 
sels departed, 
Bearing  a   nation,  with   all  its  household 

gods,  into  exile, 

Exile  without  an  end,  and  without  an  ex- 
ample in  story. 
Far  asunder,  on  separate  coasts,  the  Aca- 

dians  landed; 
Scattered  were  they,  like  flakes  of  snow, 

when  the  wind  from  the  northeast 
Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken 

the  Banks  of  Newfoundland. 
Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they   wan- 
dered from  city  to  city, 
From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry 

Southern  savannas,  — 
From   the  bleak  shores  of  the  sea  to  the 

lands  where  the  Father  of  \Vaters  10 
Seizes  the  hills  in  his  hands,  and  drags  them 

down  to  the  ocean, 
Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered 

bones  of  the  mammoth. 
Friends  they  sought  and  homes;  and  many, 

despairing,  heart-broken, 
Asked   of   the  earth   but  a  grave,  and  no 

longer  a  friend  nor  a  fireside. 
Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of 

stone  in  the  churchyards. 
Long  among  them  was  seen  a  maiden  who 

waited  and  wandered, 
Lowly   and   meek  in  spirit,  and  patiently 

suffering  all  things. 
Fair  was  she  and  young:  but,  alas  !  before 

her  extended, 
Dreary  and  vast  and  silent,  the  desert  of 

life,  with  its  pathway 
Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  had 

sorrowed  and  suffered  before  her,  20 
Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long 

dead  and  abandoned, 
As  the  emigrant's  way  o'er  the  Western 

desert  is  marked  by 
Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that 

bleach  in  the  sunshine. 
Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete, 

imperfect,  unfinished; 
As  if  a  morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music 

and  sunshine, 
Siiddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading, 

slowly  descended 


Into  the  east  again,  from  whence  it  late  had 

arisen. 
Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till,  urged 

by  the  fever  within  her, 
Urged  by  a  restless  longing,  the  hunger  and 

thirst  of  the  spirit, 
She   would   commence  again   her   endless 

search  and  endeavor;  3o 

Sometimes  in    churchyards    strayed,   and 

gazed   on   the    crosses    and    tomb- 
stones, 
Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought 

that  perhaps  in  its  bosom 
He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to 

slumber  beside  him. 

Sometimes  a  rumor,  a  hearsay,  an  inarticu- 
late whisper, 
Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon 

her  forward. 
Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had 

seen  her  beloved  and  known  him, 
But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place  or 

forgotten. 
4  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  ! '  they  said  ; '  Oh  yes  ! 

we  have  seen  him. 
He  was  with  Basil  the  blacksmith,  and  both 

have  gone  to  the  prairies; 
Coureurs-des-Bois   are    they,   and   famous 

hunters  and  trappers.'  4<? 

'  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  ! '  said  others ; '  Oh  yes  ! 

we  have  seen  him. 

He  is  a  Voyageur  in  the  lowlands  of  Louisi- 
ana.' 
Then  would  they  say,  '  Dear   child  !  why 

dream  and  wait  for  him  longer  ? 
Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Ga- 
briel ?  others 
Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and 

spirits  as  loyal  ? 
Here  is  Baptiste  Leblanc,  the  notary's  son, 

who  has  loved  thee 
Many  a  tedious  year;  come,  give  him  thy 

hand  and  be  happy  ! 
Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left   to  braid  St. 

Catherine's  tresses.' l 
Then  would  Evangeline  answer,   serenely 

but  sadly,  '  I  cannot ! 
Whither  my  heart  has  gone,  there  follows 

my  hand,  and  not  elsewhere.  5o 

For  when  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a  lamp, 

and  illumines  the  pathway, 
Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie 

hidden  in  darkness.' 

1  There  is  a  common  expression  in  French,  '  coifft* 
Sainte  Catherine^  meaning  to  be  an  old  maid. 


'36 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father- 
confessor, 

Said,  with  a  smile,  <  O  daughter !  thy  God 
thus  speaketh  within  thee  ! 

Talk  not  of  wasted  affection,  affection  never 
was  wasted; 

If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its 
waters,  returning 

Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  nil 
them  full  of  refreshment; 

That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns 
again  to  the  fountain. 

Patience;  accomplish  thy  labor;  accomplish 
thy  work  of  affection  ! 

Sorrow  and- silence  are  strong,  and  patient 
endurance  is  godlike.  60 

Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till 
the  heart  is  made  godlike, 

Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  ren- 
dered more  worthy  of  heaven  ! ' 

Cheered  by  the  good  man's  words,  Evange- 
line  labored  and  waited. 

Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge 
of  the  ocean, 

But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled 
a  voice  that  whispered,  '  Despair 
not!  ' 

Thus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and 
cheerless  discomfort, 

Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and 
thorns  of  existence. 

Let  me  essay,  O  Muse  !  to  follow  the  wan- 
derer's footsteps;  — 

Not  through  each  devious  path,  each  change- 
ful year  of  existence, 

But  as  a  traveller  follows  a  streamlet's 
course  through  the  valley:  70 

Far  from  its  margin  at  times,  and  seeing  the 
gleam  of  its  water 

Here  and  there,  in  some  open  space,  and  at 
intervals  only; 

Then  drawing  nearer  its  banks,  through 
sylvan  glooms  that  conceal  it, 

Though  he  behold  it  not,  he  can  hear  its 
continuous  murmur; 

Happy,  at  length,  if  he  find  the  spot  where 
it  reaches  an  outlet. 


It  was  the  month  of  May.    Far  down  the 

Beautiful  River, 
Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth  of 

the  Wabash, 
Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and 

swift  Mississippi, 


Floated  a  cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed 
by  Acadian  boatmen. 

It  was  a  band  of  exiles:  a  raft,  as  it  were, 
from  the  shipwrecked  80 

Nation,  scattered  along  the  coast,  now 
floating  together, 

Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  belief 
and  a  common  misfortune; 

Men  and  women  and  children,  who,  guided 
by  hope  or  by  hearsay, 

Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among 
the  few-acred  farmers 

On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of 
fair  Opelousas. 

With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her  guide, 
the  Father  Felician. 

Onward  o'er  sunken  sands,  through  a  wil- 
derness sombre  with  forests, 

Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  tur- 
bulent river; 

Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires, 
encamped  on  its  borders. 

Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green 
islands,  where  plumelike  90 

Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests, 
they  swept  with  the  current, 

Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where 
silvery  sand-bars 

Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling 
waves  of  their  margin, 

Shining  with  snow  -  white  plumes,  large 
flocks  of  pelicans  waded. 

Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the 
shores  of  the  river, 

Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  lux- 
uriant gardens, 

Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro- 
cabins  and  dove-cots. 

They  were  approaching  the  region  when 
reigns  perpetual  summer, 

Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and 
groves  of  orange  and  citron, 

Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away 
to  the  eastward.  i<x> 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course ;  and 
entering  the  Bayou  of  Plaque- 
mine, 

Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and 
devious  waters, 

Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in 
every  direction. 

Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tene- 
brous boughs  of  the  cypress 

Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in 
mid-air 


HENRY    WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'37 


Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls 
of  ancient  cathedrals. 

Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  un- 
broken, save  by  the  herons 

Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  re- 
turning at  sunset, 

Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with 
demoniac  laughter. 

Lovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and 
gleamed  on  the  water,  1 10 

Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and 
cedar  sustaining  the  arches, 

Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell 
as  through  chinks  in  a  ruin. 

Dreamlike,  and  indistinct,  and  strange  were 
all  things  around  them; 

And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a  feeling 
of  wonder  and  sadness,  — 

Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  and  that 
cannot  be  compassed. 

As,  at-the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the 
turf  of  the  prairies, 

Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the 
shrinking  mimosa, 

So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  fore- 
bodings of  evil, 

Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke 
of  doom  has  attained  it. 

But  Evangeline's  heart  was  sustained  by  a 
vision,  that  faintly  120 

Floated  before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned  her 
on  through  the  moonlight. 

It  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  as- 
sumed the  shape  of  a  phantom. 

Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Gabriel 
wandered  before  her, 

And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought 
him  nearer  and  nearer. 

Then   in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the 
boat,  rose  one  of  the  oarsmen, 

And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them 
peradventure 

Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight 
streams,  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle. 

Wild  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  cor- 
ridors leafy  the  blast  rang, 

Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving 
tongues  to  the  forest. 

Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss 
just  stirred  to  the  music.  130 

Multitudinous  ecnoes  awoke   and  died  in 

the  distance, 

;    Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  re- 
verberant branches; 


But  not  a  voice  replied;  no  answer  came 
from  the  darkness; 

And,  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a 
sense  of  pain  was  the  silence. 

Then  Evangeline  slept;  but  the  boatmen 
rowed  through  the  midnight, 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Cana- 
dian boat-songs, 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Aca- 
dian rivers, 

While  through  the  night  were  heard  the 
mysterious  sounds  of  the  desert, 

Far  off,  —  indistinct,  —  as  of  wave  or  wind 
in  the  forest, 

Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and 
the  roar  of  the  grim  alligator.  140 

Thus    ere    another   noon  they   emerged 
from  the  shades;  and  before  them 

Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the 
Atchafalaya. 

Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight 
undulations 

Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent 
in  beaut}',  the  lotus 

Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads 
of  the  boatmen. 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath 
of  magnolia  blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon;  and  numberless 
sylvan  islands, 

Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blos- 
soming hedges  of  roses, 

Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along, 
invited  to  slumber. 

Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary 
oars  were  suspended.  i^o 

j   Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that 
grew  by  the  margin, 

Safely  their  boat  was  moored;  and  scat- 
tered about  on  the  greensward, 

Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary 
travellers  slumbered. 

Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope 
of  a  cedar. 

Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet- 
flower  and  the  grapevine 
I   Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the 
ladder  of  Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  as- 
cending, descending, 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted 
from  blossom  to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she 
slumbered  beneath  it. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  ^and  the 
dawn  of  an  opening  heaven  160 

Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of 
regions  celestial. 

Nearer,   and   ever    nearer,    among    the 

numberless  islands, 
Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away 

o'er  the  water, 
Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of 

hunters  and  trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land 

of  the  bison  and  beaver. 
At  the  helin  sat  a  youth,  with  countenance 

thoughtful  and  careworn. 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his 

brow,  and  a  sadness 
Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was 

legibly  written. 
Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting, 

unhappy  and  restless, 
Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of 

self  and  of  sorrow.  170 

Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the 

lee  of  the  island, 
But   by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a 

screen  of  palmettos, 
So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay 

concealed  in  the  willows ; 
All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars, 

and  unseen,  were  the  sleepers. 
Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the 

slumbering  maiden. 
Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of 

a  cloud  on  the  prairie. 
After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes 

had  died  in  the  distance, 
As  from  a  magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke, 

and  the  maiden 
Said  with  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  '  O 

Father  Felician  ! 
Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me 

Gabriel  wanders.  180 

Is   it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague 

superstition  ? 
Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the 

truth  to  my  spirit  ? ' 
Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added,  '  Alas  for 

my  credulous  fancy  ! 
Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these 

have  no  meaning.' 
But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he 

smiled  as  he  answered,  — 
1  Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle ;  nor  are 

they  to  me  without  meaning. 


Feeling  is  deep  and  still ;  and  the  word  that 

floats  on  the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where 

the  anchor  is  hidden. 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what 

the  world  calls  illusions. 
Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee ;  for  not  far  away 

to  the  southward,  190 

On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns 

of  St.  Maur  and  St.  Martin. 
There   the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be 

given  again  to  her  bridegroom, 
There   the   long-absent   pastor   regain  his 

flock  and  his  sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and 

forests  of  fruit-trees; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the 

bluest  of  heavens 
Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the 

walls  of  the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the 

Eden  of  Louisiana  ! ' 

With  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and 

continued  their  journey. 
Softly  the  evening  came.     The  sun  from 

the  western  horizon 
Like  a  magician  extended  his  golden  wand 

o'er  the  landscape;  200 

Twinkling  vapors  arose;  and  sky  and  water 

and  forest 
Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted 

and  mingled  together. 
Hanging  between  two  skies,  a  cloud  with 

edges  of  silver, 
Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars,  on 

the  motionless  water. 

Filled  was  Evangeline's  heart  with  inex- 
pressible sweetness. 
Touched   by  the   magic   spell,  the   sacred 

fountains  of  feeling 
Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies 

and  waters  around  her. 
Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket  the  mock- 
ing-bird, wildest  of  singers, 
Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung 

o'er  the  water, 
Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of 

delirious  music,  210 

That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the 

waves  seemed  silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad: 

then  soaring  to  madness 
Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel 

of  frenzied  Bacchantes. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful, 

low  lamentation; 
Till,  having  gathered   them  all,  he  flung 

them  abroad  in  derision, 
As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of   wind 

through  the  tree-tops 
Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal 

shower  on  the  branches. 
With  such  a  prelude   as  this,  and  hearts 

that  throbbed  with  emotion, 
Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it 

flows   through    the    green   Opelou- 

sas, 
And,   through   the   amber   air,  above   the 

crest  of  the  woodland,  220 

Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from 

a  neighboring  dwelling;  — 
Sounds  of  a  horn  they  heard,  and  the  dis- 
tant lowing  of  cattle. 


Xear  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o'ershad- 
owed  by  oaks,  from  whose  branches 

Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic 
mistletoe  flaunted, 

Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden 
hatchets  at  Yule-tide, 

Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the 
herdsman.  A  garden 

Girded  it  round  about  with  a  belt  of  luxuri- 
ant blossoms, 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.  The  house 
itself  was  of  timbers 

Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully 
fitted  together. 

Large  and  low  was  the  roof;  and  on  slender 
columns  supported,  230 

Rose-wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a  broad  and 
spacious  veranda, 

Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee, 
extended  around  it. 

At  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers 
of  the  garden, 

Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love's  per- 
petual symbol, 

Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  con- 
tentions of  rivals. 

Silence  reigned  o'er  the  place.  The  line  of 
shadow  and  sunshine 

Ran  near  the  tops  of  the  trees;  but  the 
house  itself  was  in  shadow, 

And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and 
slowly  expanding 

Into  the  evening  air,  a  thin  blue  column  of 
smoke  rose. 


In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden 
gate,  ran  a  pathway  240 

Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the 
skirts  of  the  limitless  prairie, 

Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was 
slowly  descending. 

Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with 
shadowy  canvas 

Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a  motion- 
less calm  in  the  tropics, 

Stood  a  cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cord- 
age of  grape-vines. 

Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flow- 
ery surf  of  the  prairie, 

Mounted  upon  his  horse,  with  Spanish  sad- 
dle and  stirrups, 

Sat  a  herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and 
doublet  of  deerskin. 

Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from 
under  the  Spanish  sombrero 

Gazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  the 
lordly  look  of  its  master.  250 

Round  about  him  were  numberless  herds 
of  kine,  that  were  grazing 

Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the 
vapory  freshness 

That  uprose  from  the  river,  and  spread 
itself  over  the  landscape. 

Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side, 
and  expanding 

Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a  blast, 
that  resounded 

Wildly  and  sweet  and  far,  through  the  still 
damp  air  of  the  evening. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white 
horns  of  the  cattle 

Rose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse 
currents  of  ocean. 

Silent  a  moment  they  gazed,  then  bellow- 
ing rushed  o'er  the  prairie, 

And  the  whole  mass  became  a  cloud,  a 
shade  in  the  distance.  260 

Then,  as  the  herdsman  turned  to  the  house, 
through  the  gate  of  the  garden 

Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the 
maiden  advancing  to  meet  him. 

Suddenly  down  from  his  horse  he  sprang  in 
amazement,  and  forward 

Rushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclama- 
tions of  wonder; 

When  they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognized 
Basil  the  blacksmith. 

Hearty  his  welcome  was,  as  he  led  his 
guests  to  the  garden. 


140 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


There  in   an  arbor  of  roses  with  endless 

question  and  answer 
Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed 

their  friendly  embraces, 
Laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  or  sitting 

silent  and  thoughtful. 
Thoughtful,  for  Gabriel  came  not;   and  now 

dark  doubts  and  misgivings  270 

Stole  o'er  the  maiden's   heart;  and  Basil, 

somewhat  embarrassed, 
Broke  the  silence  and  said,  '  If  you  came 

by  the  Atchafalaya, 
How  have  you  nowhere   encountered   my 

Gabriel's  boat  on  the  bayous  ?  ' 
Over   Evangeline's  face  at   the  words   of 


Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said, 
with  a  tremulous  accent, 

'  Gone  ?  is  Gabriel  gone  ?  '  and,  conceal- 
ing her  face  on  his  shoulder, 

All  her  o'erburdened  heart  gave  way,  and 
she  wept  and  lamented. 

Then  the  good  Basil  said,  —  and  his  voice 
grew  blithe  as  he  said  it,  — 

J  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  child  ;  it  is  only  to- 
day he  departed. 

Foolish  boy  !  he  has  left  me  alone  with  my 
herds  and  my  horses.  280 

Moody  and  restless  grown,  .and  tried  and 
troubled,  his  spirit 

Could  no  longer  endure  the  calm  of  this 
quiet  existence, 

Thinking  ever  of  thee,  uncertain  and  sor- 
rowful ever, 

Ever  silent,  or  speaking  only  of  thee  and 
his  troubles, 

He  at  length  had  become  so  tedious  to  men 
and  to  maidens, 

Tedious  even  to  me,  that  at  length  I  be- 
thought me,  and  sent  him 

Unto  the  town  of  Adayes  to  trade  for  mules 
with  the  Spaniards. 

Thence  he  will  follow  the  Indian  trails  to 
the  Ozark  Mountains, 

Hunting  for  furs  in  the  forests,  on  rivers 
trapping  the  beaver. 

Therefore  be  of  good  cheer;  we  will  fol- 
low the  fugitive  lover;  290 

He  is  not  far  on  his  way,  and  the 
Fates  and  the  streams  are  against 
him. 

Up  and  away  to-morrow,  and  through  the 
red  dew  of  the  morning 

We  will  follow  him  fast,  and  bring  him 
back  to  his  prison.' 


Then  glad  voices  were  heard,  and  up 
from  the  banks  of  the  river, 

Borne  aloft  on  his  comrades'  arms,  came 
Michael  the  fiddler. 

Long  under  Basil's  roof  had  he  lived  like  a 
god  on  Olympus, 

Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing 
music  to  mortals. 

Far  renowned  was  he  for  his  silver  locks 
and  his  fiddle. 

'  Long  live  Michael,'  they  cried, '  our  brave 
Acadian  minstrel ! ' 

As  they  bore  him  aloft  in  triumphal  pro- 
cession; and  straightway  3oo 

Father  Felician  advanced  with  Evangeline, 
greeting  the  old  man 

Kindly  and  oft,  and  recalling  the  past, 
while  Basil,  enraptured, 

Hailed  with  hilarious  joy  his  old  compan- 
ions and  gossips, 

Laughing  loud  and  long,  and  embracing 
mothers  and  daughters. 

Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of 
the  ci-devant  blacksmith, 

All  his  domains  and  his  herds,  and  his  pa- 
triarchal demeanor; 

Much  they  marvelled  to  hear  his  tales  of 
the  soil  and  the  climate, 

And  of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless 
herds  were  his  who  would  take  them ; 

Each  one  thought  in  his  heart,  that  he,  too, 
would  go  and  do  likewise. 

Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and  crossing 
the  breezy  veranda,  310 

Entered  the  hall  of  the  house,  where  al- 
ready the  supper  of  Basil 

Waited  his  late  return;  and  they  rested 
and  feasted  together. 

Over  the  joyous  feast  the  sudden  dark- 
ness descended. 

All  was  silent  without,  and,  illuming  the 
landscape  with  silver, 

Fair  rose  the  dewy  moon  and  the  myriad 
stars;  but  within  doors, 

Brighter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of 
friends  in  the  glimmering  lamplight. 

Then  from  his  station  aloft,  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  the  herdsman 

Poured  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine  to- 
gether in  endless  profusion. 

Lighting  his  pipe,  that  was  filled  with  sweet 
Natchitoches  tobacco, 

Thus  he  spake  to  his  guests,  who  listened, 
and  smiled  as  they  listened: —  320 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


141 


'  Welcome  once  more,  my  friends,  who  long 

have  been  friendless  and  homeless, 
Welcome  once   more   to  a   home,  that  is 

better  perchance  than  the  old  one  ! 
Here  no  hungry  winter  congeals  our  blood 

like  the  rivers; 
Here  no  stony  ground  provokes  the  wrath 

of  the  farmer. 
Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through  the 

soil,  as  a  keel  through  the  water. 
All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are 

in  blossom;  and  grass  grows 
More  in  a  single  night  than  a  whole  Cana- 
dian summer. 
Here,  too,  numberless  herds  run  wild  and 

unclaimed  in  the  prairies; 
Here,  too,  lands  may  be  had  for  the  asking, 

and  forests  of  timber 
With  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  are  hewn  and 

framed  into  houses.  330 

After  your  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields 

are  yellow  with  harvests, 
No  King  George  of  England  shall  drive 

you  away  from  your  homesteads, 
Burning    your  dwellings   and   barns,   and  i 

stealing  your  farms  and  your  cat-  j 

tie.' 
Speaking  these  words,  he  blew  a  wrathful 

cloud  from  his  nostrils, 
While  his  huge,  brown  hand  came  thunder- 
ing down  on  the  table, 
So  that  the  guests  all  started;  and  Father 

Felician,  astounded, 
Suddenly  paused,  with   a   pinch   of   snuff 

half-way  to  his  nostrils. 
But   the   brave    Basil    resumed,   and    his 

words  were  milder  and  gayer:  — 
'Only  beware   of   the   fever,  my  friends, 

beware  of  the  fever  ! 
For  it  is  not  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian 

climate,  340 

Cured   by  wearing   a   spider   hung   round 

one's  neck  in  a  nutshell ! ' 
Then  there  were  voices  heard  at  the  door, 

and  footsteps  approaching 
Sounded  upon  the  stairs  and  the  floor  of 

the  breezy  veranda. 
It  was  the  neighboring  Creoles  and  small 

Acadian  planters, 
Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  house 

of  Basil  the  Herdsman. 
Merry  the  meeting  was   of   ancient   com- 
rades and  neighbors: 
Friend  clasped  friend  in  his  arms ;  and  they 

who  before  were  as  strangers, 


Meeting  in  exile,  became  straightway  as 
friends  to  each  other, 

Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a  common 
country  together. 

But  in  the  neighboring  hall  a  strain  of  mu- 
sic, proceeding  350 

From  the  accordant  strings  of  Michael's 
melodious  fiddle, 

Broke  up  all  further  speech.  Away,  like 
children  delighted, 

All  things  forgotten  beside,  they  gave  them- 
selves to  the  maddening 

Whirl  of  the  giddy  dance,  as  it  swept  and 
swayed  to  the  music, 

Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes  and  the  rush 
of  fluttering  garments. 

Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the  head  of  the 
hall,  the  priest  and  the  herdsman 

Sat,  conversing  together  of  past  and  present 
and  future; 

While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced, 
for  within  her 

Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst 
of  the  music 

Heard  she  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  an  ir- 
repressible sadness  360 

Came  o'er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole 
forth  into  the  garden. 

Beautiful  was  the  night.  Behind  the  black 
wall  of  the  forest, 

Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the 
moon.  On  the  river 

Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a 
tremulous  gleam  of  the  moonlight, 

Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  dark- 
ened and  devious  spirit. 

Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold 
flowers  of  the  garden 

Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were 
their  prayers  and  confessions 

Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a 
silent  Carthusian. 

Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy 
with  shadows  and  night-dews, 

Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.  The  calm 
and  the  magical  moonlight  370 

Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefin- 
able longings, 

As,  through  the  garden-gate,  and  beneath 
the  shade  of  the  oak-trees, 

Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of 
the  measureless  prairie. 

Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it 
and  fire-flies 


142 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


orleamed  and  floated  away  in  mingled  and 

infinite  numbers. 
Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of 

God  in  the  heavens, 
Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased 

to  marvel  and  worship, 
Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the 

walls  of  that  temple, 
As  if  a  hand   had   appeared  and  written 

upon  them,  '  Upharsin.' 
And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the 

stars  aud  the  fire-flies,  380 

Wandered   alone,  and   she   cried,  '  O  Ga- 

briel !     O  my  beloved  ! 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot 

behold  thee  ? 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice 

does  not  reach  me  ? 
Ah  !  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path 

to  the  prairie  ! 
Ah  !  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on 

the  woodlands  around  me  ! 
Ah  !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning 

from  labor, 
Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream 

of  me  in  thy  slumbers  ! 
When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms 

be  folded  about  thee  ?  ' 
Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  notes  of  a 

whippoorwill  sounded 
Like  a  flute  in  the  woods  ;  and  anon,  through 

the  neighboring  thickets, 
Farther  and  farther   away  it  floated 


390 
and 


dropped  into  silence. 
'  Patience  !  '  whispered  the  oaks  from  orac- 

ular caverns  of  darkness: 
And,  from  the  moonlit  meadow,  a  sigh  re- 

sponded, '  To-morrow  !  ' 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day;  and  all  the 

flowers  of  the  garden 
Bathed   his   shining  feet  with  their  tears, 

and  anointed  his  tresses 
With  the  delicious  balm  that  they  bore  in 

their  vases  of  crystal. 
'  Farewell  !  '  said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at 

the  shadowy  threshold; 
1  See  that  you  bring  us  the   Prodigal  Son 

from  his  fasting  and  famine, 
And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when 

the  bridegroom  was  coming.' 
'  Farewell  !  '   answered    the    maiden,  and, 

smiling,  with  Basil  descended         400 
Down  to  the  river's  brink,  where  the  boat- 

men already  were  waiting. 


Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morn- 
ing, and  sunshine,  and  gladness, 
Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who 

was  speeding  before  them, 
Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a  dead  leaf 

over  the  desert. 
Not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  day 

that  succeeded, 
Found  they  the  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake 

or  forest  or  river, 
Nor,  after  many  days,  had  they  found  him ; 

but  vague  and  uncertain 
Rumors  alone  were  their  guides  through  a 

wild  and  desolate  country; 
Till,  at  the  little  inn  of  the  Spanish  town  of 

Adayes, 
Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned 

from  the  garrulous  landlord,          410 
That  on  the  day  before,  with  horses  and 

guides  and  companions, 
Gabriel  left  the  village,  and  took  the  road 

of  the  prairies. 


Far  in  the  West  there  lies  a  desert  land, 

where  the  mountains 
Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty 

and  luminous  summits. 
Down   from    their  jagged,   deep    ravines, 

where     the     gorge,    like     a     gate- 
way, 
Opens  a  passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the 

emigrant's  wagon, 
Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walle- 

way  and  Owyhee. 
Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the 

Wind-river  Mountains, 
Through  the  Sweet-water  Valley  precipi- 
tate leaps  the  Nebraska; 
And  to  the  south,  from  Fontaine-qui-bout 

and  the  Spanish  sierras,  420 

Fretted  with  sands  and  rocks,  and  swept  by 

the  wind  of  the  desert, 
Numberless  torrents,  with  ceaseless  sound, 

descend  to  the  ocean, 
Like  the  great  chords  of  a  harp,  in  loud  and 

solemn  vibrations. 
Spreading  between  these  streams  are  the 

wondrous,  beautiful  prairies; 
Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow 

and  sunshine, 
Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and 

purple  amorphas. 
Over  them  wandered  the  buffalo  herds,  air- 

the  elk  and  the  roobwk: 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH    LONGFELLOW 


Over  them  wandered  the  wolves,  and  herds 
of  riderless  horses; 

Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that 
are  weary  with  travel; 

Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of 
Ishmael's  children,  430 

Staining  the  desert  with  blood;  and  above 
their  terrible  war-trails 

Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic, 
the  vulture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a  chieftain 
slaughtered  in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling 
the  heavens. 

Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the 
camps  of  these  savage  maraud- 
ers; 

Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  mar- 
gins of  swift-running  rivers; 

And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite 
monk  of  the  desert, 

Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for 
roots  by  the  brook-side, 

And  over  all  is  the  sky,  the  clear  and  crys- 
talline heaven, 

Like  the  protecting  hand  of  God  inverted 
above  them.  44o 

Into  this  wonderful  land,  at  the  base  of 

the  Ozark  Mountains, 
Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and 

trappers  behind  him. 
Day  after  day,  with  their  Indian  guides,  the 

maiden  and  Basil 
Followed  his  flying  steps,  and  thought  each 

day  to  o'ertake  him. 
Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw, 

the  smoke  of  his  camp-fire 
Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant 

plain;  but  at  nightfall, 
When    they  had   reached    the  place  they 

found  only  embers  and  ashes. 
And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times 

and  their  bodies  were  weary, 
Hope  still  guided  them  on,  as  the  magic 

Fata  Morgana 

Showed  them  her  lakes  of  light,  that  re- 
treated and  vanished  before  them.  450 

Once,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire, 

there  silently  entered 
tuto   their  little   camp  an  Indian  woman, 

whose  features 
Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow,  and  patience 

as  great  as  her  sorrow. 


She  was  a  Shawnee  woman  returning  home 

to  her  people, 
From  the  far-off  hunting-grounds  of  the 

cruel  Camanches, 
|   Where  her  Canadian  husband,  a  Coureur- 

des-Bois,  had  been  murdered. 
Touched  were  their  hearts  at   her  story. 

and   warmest   and    friendliest   wel- 
come 
Gave  they,  with  words  of  cheer,  and  she  sat 

and  feasted  among  them 
On  the  butt'alo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked 

on  the  embers. 
But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil 

and  all  his  companions,  46o 

Worn  with  the  long  day's  march  and  the 

chase  of  the  deer  and  the  bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and 

slept  where  the  quivering  fire-light 
Flashed  on  their  swarthy  cheeks,  and  their 

forms  wrapped  up  in  their  blankets, 
Then  at  the  door  of  Evangeline's  tent  she 

sat  and  repeated 
Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm 

of  her  Indian  accent, 
All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures, 

and  pains,  and  reverses. 
Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to 

know  that  another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and 

had  been  disappointed. 
Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity 

and  woman's  compassion, 
Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that  one  who 

had  suffered  was  near  her,  47o 

She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  dis- 
asters. 
Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and 

when  she  had  ended 

Still  was  mute;  but  at  length,  as  if  a  mys- 
terious horror 
Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and 

repeated  the  tale  of  the  Mowis; 
Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  won 

and  wedded  a  maiden, 
But,  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and 

passed  from  the  wigwam, 
Fading   and   melting  away  and  dissolving 

into  the  sunshine, 
Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she 

followed  far  into  the  forest. 
Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed 

like  a  weird  incantation, 
Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who 

was  wooed  by  a  phantom,  4Sc 


144 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


That  through  the  pines  o'er  her  father's 
lodge,  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight, 

Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whis- 
pered love  to  the  maiden, 

Till  she  followed  his  green  and  waving 
plume  through  the  forest, 

And  nevermore  returned,  nor  was  seen 
again  by  her  people. 

Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise, 
Evangeline  listened 

To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till 
the  region  around  her 

Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her 
swarthy  guest  the  enchantress. 

Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Moun- 
tains the  moon  rose, 

Lighting  the  little  tent,  and  with  a  myste- 
rious splendor 

Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing 
and  filling  the  woodland.  49o 

With  a  delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed 
by,  and  the  branches 

Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely 
audible  whispers. 

Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evan- 
geline's  heart,  but  a  secret, 

Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite 
terror, 

As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the 
nest  of  the  swallow. 

It  was  no  earthly  fear.  A  breath  from  the 
region  of  spirits 

Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night;  and  she 
felt  for  a  moment 

That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was 
pursuing  a  phantom. 

With  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear 
and  the  phantom  had  vanished. 

Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  was 

resumed;  and  the  Shawnee  500 

Said,  as   they   journeyed    along,   'On  the 

western  slope  of  these  mountains 
Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe 

chief  of  the  Mission. 
Much  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them 

of  Mary  and  Jesus. 
Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep 

with  pain,  as  they  hear  him.' 
Then,  with  a  sudden  and  secret   emotion, 

Evangeline  answered, 
'Let  us  go  to  the  Mission,  for  there  good 

tidings  await  us  ! ' 
Thither  they  turned  their  steeds;  and  be- 

bind  a  spur  of  the  mountains, 


Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a 
murmur  of  voices, 

And  in  a  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the 
bank  of  a  river, 

Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents 
of  the  Jesuit  Mission.  5i0 

Under  a  towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  village, 

Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  his  chil- 
dren. A  crucifix  fastened 

High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  over- 
shadowed by  grapevines, 

Looked  with  its  agonized  face  on  the  multi- 
tude kneeling  beneath  it. 

This  was  their  rural  chapel.  Aloft,  through 
the  intricate  arches 

Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their 
vespers, 

Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus 
and  sighs  of  the  branches. 

Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers, 
nearer  approaching, 

Knelt  on  the  swarded  floor,  and  joined  in 
the  evening  devotions. 

But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the 
benediction  had  fallen  520 

Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like 
seed  from  the  hands  of  the  sower, 

Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the 
strangers,  and  bade  them 

Welcome ;  and  when  they  replied,  he  smiled 
with  benignant  expression, 

Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother- 
tongue  in  the  forest, 

And,  with  words  of  kindness,  conducted 
them  into  his  wigwam. 

There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed, 
and  on  cakes  of  the  maize-ear 

Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the 
water-gourd  of  the  teacher. 

Soon  was  their  story  told;  and  the  priest 
with  solemnity  answered:  — 

'Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since 
Gabriel,  seated 

On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the 
maiden  reposes,  530 

Told  me  this  same  sad  tale ;  then  arose  and 
continued  his  journey  ! ' 

Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he 
spake  with  an  accent  of  kind- 
ness; 

Biit  on  Evangeline's  heart  fell  his  words  as 
in  whiter  the  snow-flakes 

Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the 
birds  have  departed. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


r45 


'  Far  to  the  north  he  has  gone,'  continued 
the  priest;  '  but  in  autumn, 

When  the  chase  is  done,  will  return  again 
to  the  Mission.' 

Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was 
meek  and  submissive, 

'  Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is 
sad  and  afflicted.' 

So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all;  and 
betimes  on  the  morrow, 

Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  In- 
dian guides  and  companions,  540 

Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline 
stayed  at  the  Mission. 

Slowly,  slowly,  slowly  the  days  succeeded 
each  other,  — 

Days  and  weeks  and  months ;  and  the  fields 
of  maize  that  were  springing 

Green  from  the  ground  when  a  stranger 
she  came,  now  waving  above 
her, 

Lifted  their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves  in- 
terlacing, and  forming 

Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries 
pillaged  by  squirrels. 

Then  in  the  golden  weather  the  maize  was 
husked,  and  the  maidens 

Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  be- 
tokened a  lover, 

But  at  the  crooked  laughed,  and  called  it  a 
thief  in  the  corn-field. 

Even  the  blood -red  ear  to  Evangeline 
brought  not  her  lover.  S5o 

'Patience!'  the  priest  would  say;  'have 
faith,  and  thy  prayer  will  be  an- 
swered ! 

Look  at  this  vigorous  plant  that  lifts  its 
head  from  the  meadow, 

See  how  its  leaves  are  turned  to  the  north, 
as  true  as  the  magnet; 

This  is  the  compass-flower,  that  the  finger 
of  God  has  planted 

Here  in  the  houseless  wild,  to  direct  the 
traveller's  journey 

Over  the  sea-like,  pathless,  limitless  waste 
of  the  desert. 

Such  in  the  soul  of  man  is  faith.  The  blos- 
soms of  passion, 

Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and 
fuller  of  fragrance, 

But  they  beguile  us,  and  lead  us  astray,  and 
their  odor  is  deadly. 

Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here, 
and  hereafter  560 


Crown  us  with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are 
wet  with  the  dews  of  nepenthe.' 

So  came  the  autumn,  and  passed,  and  the 

winter,  —  yet  Gabriel  came  not; 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes 

of  the  robin  and  bluebird 
Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  in  wood,  yet 

Gabriel  came  not. 
But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer  winds  a 

rumor  was  wafted 
Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,  or  hue  or  odor 

of  blossom. 
Far  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the 

Michigan  forests, 
Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of  the 

Saginaw  River. 
And,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the 

lakes  of  St.  Lawrence, 
Saying   a   sad   farewell,  Evaugeline    went 

from  the  Mission.  570 

When  over  weary  ways,  by  long  and  peril- 
ous marches, 
She  had  attained  at  length  the  depths  of 

the  Michigan  forests, 
Found  she  the  hunter's  lodge  deserted  and 

fallen  to  ruin  ! 

Thus  did  the  long  sad  years  glide  on. 
and  in  seasons  and  places 

Divers  and  distant  far  was  seen  the  wan- 
dering maiden ;  — 

Now  in  the  Tents  of  Grace  of  the  meek 
Moravian  Missions, 

Now  in  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields 
of  the  army, 

Now  in  secluded  hamlets,  in  towns  and 
populous  cities. 

Like  a  phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away 
unremembered. 

Fair  was  she  and  young,  when  in  hope  be- 
*gan  the  long  journey;  5So 

Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappoint- 
ment it  ended. 

Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away 
from  her  beauty, 

Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the 
gloom  and  the  shadow. 

Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint 
streaks  of  gray  o'er  her  fore- 
head, 

Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o'er  her 
earthly  horizon, 

As  in  the  eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks 
of  the  morning. 


I46 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


v1 
In  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by 

the  Delaware  waters, 
Guarding  in   sylvan   shades   the   name   of 

Peim  the  apostle. 
Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream 

the  city  he  founded. 
There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is 

the  emblem  of  beauty,  590 

And  the  streets  still  reecho  the  names  of 

the  trees  of  the  forest, 
As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads 

whose  haunts  they  molested. 
There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evange- 

line  landed,  an  exile, 
Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a  home 

and  a  country. 
There   old  Rene"   Leblanc   had  died;  and 

when  he  departed, 
Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred 

descendants. 
Something  at  least  there  was  in  the  friendly 

streets  of  the  city, 
Something   that   spake   to    her  heart,  and 

made  her  no  longer  a  stranger; 
And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  Thee  and 

Thou  of  the  Quakers, 
For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian 

country,  600 

Where  all  men  were  equal',  and  all  were 

brothers  and  sisters. 

So,  when  the  fruitless  search,  the  disap- 
pointed endeavor, 
Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth, 

uncomplaining, 
Thither,    as    leaves    to    the    light,    were 

turned  her  thoughts  and  her  foot- 
steps. 
As  from  the  mountain's  top  the  rainy  mists 

of  the  morning 

Roll  away,  and  afar  we  behold  the  land- 
scape below  us, 

1  I  fear  that  I  cannot  establish  by  any  historic 
proof  the  identity  of  the  old  building  you  speak  of  in 
your  kind  letter,  with  that  in  which  Evangeline  found 
Gabriel.  A  great  many  years  ago,  strolling  through 
the  streets  of  Philadelphia,  I  passed  an  old  almshouse 
within  high  brick  walls,  and  with  trees  growing  in  its 
enclosure.  The  quiet  and  seclusion  of  the  place  .  .  . 
impressed  me  deeply.  This  was  long  before  the  poem 
was  written  and  before  I  had  heard  the  tradition  on 
which  it  was  founded.  But  remembering  the  place,  I 
chose  it  for  the  final  scene.  (LONOFBLLOW,  in  a  let- 
ter to  Miss  E.  S.  Phelps,  March  12,  1876 ;  Life,  vol.  iii, 
pp.  259,  260.) 

This  visit  to  Philadelphia  was  made  fifty  years  be- 
fore, in  1826,  when  Longfellow  was  waiting  at  New 
York  for  the  ship  which  was  to  take  him  on  his  first 
trip  to  Europe. 


Sun-illumined,  with  shining  rivers  and  citiew 

and  hamlets, 
So  fell  the  mists  from  her  mind,  and  she 

saw  the  world  far  below  her, 
Dark  no  longer,  but  all  illumined  with  love ; 

and  the  pathway 
Which  she  had  climbed  so  far,  lying  smooth 

and  fair  in  the  distance.  610 

Gabriel    was   not   forgotten.    Within    her 

heart  was  his  image, 
Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  love  and  youth,  as 

last  she  beheld  him, 
Only  more  beautiful  made  by  his  death- like 

silence  and  absence. 
Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not, 

for  it  was  not. 
Over  him  years  had  no  power;  he  was  not 

changed,  but  transfigured; 
He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is 

dead,  and  not  absent; 

Patience  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devo- 
tion to  others, 

This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sor- 
row had  taught  her. 
So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some 

odorous  spices, 
Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling 

the  air  with  aroma.  620 

Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life, 

but  to  follow 
Meekly,  with   reverent   steps,   the   sacred 

feet  of  her  Saviour. 
Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a  Sister  of 

Mercy;  frequenting 
Lonely  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  crowded 

lanes  of  the  city, 

Where  distress  and  want  concealed  them- 
selves from  the  sunlight, 
Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  lan- 
guished neglected. 
Night   after   night,  when   the   world  was 

asleep,  as  the  watchman  repeated 
Loud,  through   the  gusty  streets,  that  all 

was  well  in  the  city, 
High  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the 

light  of  her  taper. 
Day  after  day,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  afi 

slow  through  the  suburbs  630 

Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers 

and  fruits  for  the  market, 
Met  he  that  meek,  pale  face,  returning  home 

from  its  watchings. 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a  pestilence 
fell  on  the  city, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'47 


Presaged  by  wondrous  signs,  and  mostly  by 

flocks  of  wild  pigeons, 
Darkening   the   sun   in   their   flight,   with 

naught  in  their  craws  but  an  acorn. 
And,  as  the  tides  of  the  sea  arise  in  the 

month  of  September, 
Flooding  some  silver  stream,  till  it  spreads 

to  a  lake  in  the  meadow, 
So  death  flooded  life,  and,  o'erflowing  its 

natural  margin, 
Spread  to  a  brackish  lake,  the  silver  stream 

of  existence. 
Wealth  had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty 

to  charm,  the  oppressor;  64o 

But  all  perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge 

of  his  anger ;  — 
Only,   alas  !    the    poor,   who   had   neither 

friends  nor  attendants, 
Crept  away  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home 

of  the  homeless. 
Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  midst 

of  meadows  and  woodlands;  — 
Now  the  city  surrounds  it;  but  still,  with 

its  gateway  and  wicket 
Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  its  humble 

walls  seemed  to  echo 
Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord:  'The  poor 

ye  always  have  with  you.' 
Thither,  by  night  and   by  day,   came  the 

Sister  of  Mercy.   The  dying 
Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  in- 
deed, to  behold  there 

Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle  her  fore- 
head with  splendor;  656 
Such  as  the  artist  paints  o'er  the  brows  of 

saints  and  apostles, 
Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o'er  a  city  seen 

at  a  distance. 
Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the 

city  celestial, 
Into    whose    shining   gates    erelong    their 

spirits  would  enter. 

Thus,  on  a  Sabbath  morn,  through  the 
streets,  deserted  and  silent, 

Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the 
door  of  the  almshouse. 

Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of 
flowers  in  the  garden; 

And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the 
fairest  among  them, 

That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in 
their  fragrance  and  beauty. 

Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  cor- 
ridors, cooled  by  the  east-wind,  660 


Distant    and    soft    on    her   ear    fell    the 

chimes   from  the   belfry  of   Christ 

Church, 
While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the 

meadows  were  wafted 
Sounds  of  psalms,  that  were  sung  by  the 

Swedes  in  their  church  at  Wicaco. 
Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of 

the  hour  on  her  spirit: 
Something  within  her  said,  '  At  length  thy 

trials  are  ended ; ' 
And,  with  light  in  her  looks,  she  entered 

the  chambers  of  sickness. 
Noiselessly  moved    about   the    assiduous, 

careful  attendants, 
Moistening  the  feverish  lip,  and  the  aching 

brow,  and  in  silence 
Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and 

concealing  their  faces, 
Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts 

of  snow  by  the  roadside.  670 

Many  a  languid  head,  upraised  as  Evange- 

line  entered, 
Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while 

she  passed,  for  her  presence 
Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a  ray  of  the  sun 

on  the  walls  of  a  prison. 
And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how 

Death,  the  consoler, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had 

healed  it  forever. 
Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in 

the  night  time; 
Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  already 

by  strangers. 

Suddenly,  as  if   arrested  by  fear  or  a 

feeling  of  wonder, 
Still    she   stood,   with    her   colorless    lips 

apart,  while  a  shudder 
Ran   through   her   frame,  and,   forgotten, 

the  flowerets  dropped  from  her  fin- 
gers, 680 
And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and 

bloom  of  the  morning. 
Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of 

such  terrible  anguish, 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up 

from  their  pillows. 
On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the 

form  of  an  old  man. 
Long,  and  thin,  and  gray  were  the  lockp 

that  shaded  his  temples; 
But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his 

face  for  a  moment 


148 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of 

its  earlier  manhood; 
So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of 

those  who  are  dying. 
Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the 

flush  of  the  fever, 
As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had 

besprinkled  its  portals,  690 

That  the   Angel  of  Death  might  see  the 

sign,  and  pass  over. 
Motionless,  senseless,  dying,  he   lay,  and 

his  spirit  exhausted 
Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite 

depths  in  the  darkness, 
Darkness  of   slumber  and   death,  forever 

sinking  and  sinking. 
Then   through  those  realms  of   shade,  in 

multiplied  reverberations, 
Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through 

the  hush  that  succeeded 
Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender 

and  saint-like, 
'  Gabriel !  O  my  beloved  ! '  and  died  away 

into  silence. 
Then  he    beheld,  in   a  dream,  once   more 

the  home  of  his  childhood; 
Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan  rivers 

among  them,  700 

Village,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands ;  and, 

walking  under  their  shadow, 
As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline 

rose  in  his  vision. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes;  and  as  slowly  he 

lifted  his  eyelids, 
Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline 

knelt  by  his  bedside. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for 

the  accents  unuttered 
Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed 

what  his  tongue  would  have  spoken. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  rise;  and  Evangeline, 

kneeling  beside  him, 
Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on 

her  bosorn. 

Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes ;  but  it  sud- 
denly sank  into  darkness, 
As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of 

wind  at  a  casement.  7io 

All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the 
fear,  and  the  sorrow, 


All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless,  unsat- 
isfied longing, 

All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  an- 
guish of  patience  ! 

And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless 
head  to  her  bosom, 

Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,  and  murmured, 
'  Father,  I  thank  thee  ! ' 


Still  stands  the  forest  primeval;  but  far 
away  from  its  shadow, 

Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the 
lovers  are  sleeping. 

Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Catho- 
lic churchyard, 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie,  unknown 
and  unnoticed. 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flow- 
ing beside  them,  72o 

Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where 
theirs  are  at  rest  and  forever, 

Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs 
no  longer  are  busy, 

Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs 
have  ceased  from  their  labors, 

Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have 
completed  their  journey  ! 

Still  stands  the  forest  primeval;  but  un- 
der the  shade  of  its  branches 

Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs 
and  language. 

Only  along  the  shore  of  the  mournful  and 
misty  Atlantic 

Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants,  whose  fa- 
thers from  exile 

Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die 
in  its  bosom. 

In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the 
loom  are  still  busy;  73o 

Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and 
their  kirtles  of  homespun, 

And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evaugeline's 
story, 

While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep- 
voiced,  neighboring  ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers 
the  wail  of  the  forest. 

1845-47.  1847. 


HENRY    VVAUSVVORTH   LONGFELLOW 


149 


WANDERER'S    NIGHT-SONGS 

(WANDRERS    NACHTLIED    AND   EIN 
GLEICHES) 


FROM   GOETHE 


THOU  that  from  the  heavens  art, 
Every  pain  and  sorrow  stillest, 
And  the  doubly  wretched  heart 
Doubly  with  refreshment  fillest, 
I  am  weary  with  contending  ! 
Why  this  rapture  and  unrest  ? 
Peace  descending 
Come,  ah,  come  into  my  breast ! 


O'er  all  the  hill-tops 

Is  quiet  now, 

In  all  the  tree-tops 

Hearest  thou 

Hardly  a  breath; 

The  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees: 

Wait;  soon  like  these 

Thou  too  shalt  rest. 


1845,  1870. 


1870. 


THE    BUILDERS 


ALL  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 

Time  is  with  materials  filled;  i 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere.  : 


Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a  firm  and  ample  base  ;  30 

And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 


Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 

And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 
1846. 


1849. 


RESIGNATION1 

THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and 
tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  cry- 
ing* 

WTill  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient  !    These  severe  afflictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise,2  10 

|  But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 
Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and 
vapors; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

'  See  the  Life  of  Longfellow,vo\.  ii,  pp.  129-131,  on  the 
death  of  Fanny  Longfellow  and  her  burial,  September 
11  and  12,  1848;  and  the  entry  in  Longfellow's  Journal 
a  month  later,  November  12  :  '  An  inappeasable  longing 
to  see  her  comes  over  me  at  times,  which  I  can  hardly 
control.' 

See  also  the  letter  from  Edward  Everett,  Life,  vol. 
ii,  p.  165. 

2  '  Although  affliction  cometh  not  forth  of  the  dust, 
neither  doth  trouble  spring  out  of  the  ground.'  Job 
v,  6.  (Quoted  by  LONGFELLOW.) 


'5° 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


There  is  no  Death  !    What  seems  so  is  tran- 
sition; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death.  20 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affec- 
tion,— 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protec- 
tion, 
And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclu- 
sion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollu- 
tion, 
She  lives  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air;  30 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 
Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  un- 
broken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking   that  our   remembrance,   though 

unspoken, 
May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child;  4o 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emo- 
tion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the 

ocean, 
That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feel- 
ing 

We  may  not  wholly  stay;  50 

By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 
1848.  1849. 


CHILDREN1 

COME  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 

For  I  hear  you  at  your  play, 
And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 

Have  vanished  quite  away. 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sun- 
shine, 

In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet's  flow,  10 
But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 

And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 

Ah  !  what  would  the  world  be  to  us 
If  the  children  were  no  more  ? 

We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 
Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  hardened  into  wood,  —         20 

That  to  the  world  are  children; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  brighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 

And  the  wisdom  of  our  books,  3o 

When  compared  with  your  caresses, 
And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said; 
For  ye  are  living  poems, 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 
1849.  (1858.) 

CASPAR    BECERRA 

BY  his  evening  fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o'er  his  secret  shame; 

1  See  note  on  '  The  Children's  Hour  ; '  and  the  Life 
of  Longfellow,  vol.  ii,  pp.  188.  189,  376,  390-393. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'5* 


Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

Still  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

'T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill; 

But,  alas  !  his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 

From  a  distant  Eastern  island 

Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought; 

Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 
At  his  toil  untiring  wrought; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 

Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep, 
And  the  day's  humiliation 

Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a  voice  cried,  '  Rise,  O  master  ! 

From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
Shape  the  thought  that  stirs  within  thee ! '  - 

And  the  startled  artist  woke,  — 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 
Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood; 

And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 
And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 

O  thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet  ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart: 
That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


THE    BUILDING   OF   THE   SHIP 

'  BUILD  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master  ! 

Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  ' 

The  merchant's  word 

Delighted  the  Master  heard; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 

A  quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide        10 

Play  round  the  bows  of  ships 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 

And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 

He  answered,  '  Erelong  we  will  launch 

A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  stanch, 

As  ever  weathered  a  wintry  sea  ! ' 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 


Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 
A  little  model  the  Master  wrought, 
Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan  20 

What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 
Its  counterpart  in  miniature ; 
That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure 
The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 
To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 
And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o'er 
The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 
And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 
Towered  the  Great  Harry,1  crank  and  tall, 
Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall,  3o 
With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 
And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 
And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 
And  eight  round    towers,  like  those  that 

frown 

From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 
Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 
And  he  said  with  a  smile,  '  Our  ship,  I  wis, 
Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  ! ' 
It  was  of  another  form,  indeed; 
Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed,  40 

A  beautiful  and  gallant  craft; 
Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the 

blast, 

Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 
Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm ; 
Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees, 
That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 
And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 
Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 
Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course.       50 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master,- 
With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 
That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 
And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! 

Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 

Lay  the  timber  piled  around ; 

Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these, 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees ; 

Brought  from  regions  far  away,  60 

From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay, 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke  ! 

Ah  !  what  a  wondrous  thing  it  is 

To  note  how.  many  wheels  of  toil 

1  There  was  an  English  warship  of  this  name  under 
Henry  VII,  and  another,  which  Longfellow  here  de- 
scribes, under  Henry  VIII.  See  note  in  the  Rivertide 
Literature  Series. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion  ! 
There  's  not  a  ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 
But  every  climate,  every  soil, 
Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 
And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o'er  the  sea,  7o 

And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 

As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 

Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 

Framed  and  launched  in  a  single  day. 

That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 

Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 

Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 

Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 

A  youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 

Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning,   80 

Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 

In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach, 

Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 

The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth  ! 

The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 

Many  a  ship  that  sailed  the  main 

Was  modelled  o'er  and  o'er  again; 

The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 

The  heir  of  his  dexterity,  90 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter's 

hand, 

When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 
What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

'  Thus,'  said  he,  '  will  we  build  this  ship  ! 

Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 

And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 

Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care; 

Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware; 

For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 

To  this  vessel  shall  belong.  100 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 

Here  together  shall  combine. 

A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 

And  the  UNION  be  her  name  ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 

Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  ! ' 

The  Master's  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill.of  pride   no 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 


And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair, 

With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 

Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 

Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 

Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach; 

But  he  120 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea  ! 

Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 

That  obeyeth  Love's  command  ! 

It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 

That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 

And  he  who  followeth  Love's  behest 

Far  excelleth  all  the  rest  ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 
Was  the  noble  task  begun, 
And     soon     throughout     the     ship-yard's 
bounds  130 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 
Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 
With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side; 
Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 
That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 
The  keel  of  oak  for  a  noble  ship, 
Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 
Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 
The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one  140 

Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun, 
And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 
By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide  ! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o'er, 
The  young  man  at  the  Master's  door 
Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still, 
And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 
Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 
The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 
Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales,  150 
Of  pirates  coasting  the  Spanish  Main, 
And  ships  that  never  came  back  again, 
The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life, 
Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 
His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 
That   nothing   can   stay   and   nothing   can 

bind, 

And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 
With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands, 
Where  the  tumbling  surf, 
O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar,          160 
Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 
As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 
And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 
At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 
With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


'53 


The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 
That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind  ! 
And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a  gleam 
From  the  bowl  of   his  pipe  would  awhile 

illume 

The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom,   170 
And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a  dream; 
And  for  a  moment  one  might  mark 
What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 
That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 
Tenderly,  on  the  young  man's  breast ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 

With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 

Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 

Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 

A  skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  !  180 

And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 

The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 

Till  after  many  a  week,  at  length, 

Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 

Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 

Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreath- 

ing, 

Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 
Caldron,  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed  i9o 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheath- 
ing. 

And  amid  the  clamors 
Of  clattering  hammers, 
He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 
The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men:  — 

'  Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master, 
Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! ' 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band,         200 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 

That,  like  a  thought,  should  have  control 

Over  the  movement  of  the  whole; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 

Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the 

land, 

And  immovable  and  fast 
Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing 

blast ! 
And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood,1 

1  Compare  the  story  by  Hawthorne,  '  Browne's 
Wooden  Image,'  in  Mosses  from  an  old  Manse  ;  and  the 
entry  in  Longfellow's  Journal,  March  14,  1856.  (Life, 
vol.  ii,  p.  307.) 


By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 

With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind        210 

Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a  classic  mould, 

Not  like  a  Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  Master's  daughter  ! 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night, 

'T  will  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal 

light, 
Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the 

dark, 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 
The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark,  220 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 
By  a  path  none  other  knows  aright ! 

Behold,  at  last, 
Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place; 
Shrouds  and  stays 
Holding  it  firm  and  fast ! 2 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 
When  upon  mountain  and  plain  230 

Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell,  —  those  lordly  pines  ! 
Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 
'Mid  shouts  and  cheers 
The  jaded  steers, 
Panting  beneath  the  goad, 
Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 
Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 
To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 
And  naked  and  bare,  240 

To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 
Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 
Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  forevermore 
Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not  see 
again. 


2  I  wish  to  anticipate  a  criticism  on  this  passage,  by 
stating  that  sometimes,  though  not  usually,  vessels  are 
launched  fully  sparred  and  rigged.  I  have  availed  my- 
self of  the  exception  as  better  suited  to  my  purposes 
than  the  general  rule  ;  but  the  reader  will  see  that  it  is 
neither  a  blunder  nor  a  poetic  license.  On  this  subject 
a  friend  in  Portland,  Maine,  writes  me  thus :  '  In  tl  i« 
State,  and  also,  I  am  told,  in  New  York,  ships  w 
sometimes  rigged  upon  the  stocks,  in  order  to  save 
time,  or  to  make  a  show.  There  was  a  fine  large  ship 
launched  last  summer  at  Ellsworth,  fully  sparred  and 
rigged.  Some  years  ago  a  ship  was  launched  here,  with 
her  rigging,  spars,  sails,  and  cargo  aboard.  She  sailed 
the  next  day  and  —  was  never  heard  of  again  !  I  hope 
this  will  not  be  the  fate  of  your  poem ! '  ( 


154 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


And  everywhere 
The  slender,  graceful  spars 
Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 
And  at  the  mast-head, 
White,  blue,  and  red,  250 

A  flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 
Ah  !  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 
In  foreign  harbors  shall  behold 
That  flag  unrolled, 
'T  will  be  as  a  friendly  hand 
Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 
Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and 
endless ! 

All  is  finished  !  and  at  length 
Has  come  the  bridal  day 
Of  beauty  and  of  strength.  260 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 
With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 
And  o'er  the  bay, 
Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 
The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 
The  ocean  old, 
Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 
Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 
Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold.  270 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest; 
And  far  and  wide, 
With  ceaseless  flow, 
His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 
He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 
There  she  stands, 
With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 
Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 
In  honor  of  her  marriage  day,  280 

Her   snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blend- 
ing? 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 
Ready  to  be 
The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 

Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 

Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 

Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 

Broken  by  many  a  sudden  fleck, 

Fall  around  them  on  the  deck.  290 

The  prayer  is  said, 

The  service  read, 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head; 

And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 

Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 


Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 

In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 

The  worthy  pastor  —  3ot 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 

That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock  — 

Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 

Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 

He  knew  the  chart 

Of  the  sailor's  heart, 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs,  3u 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 

All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 

With  such  resistless  undertow, 

And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 

The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 

Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he :  — 

'  Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound,    321 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies,  330 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah  !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  seciirely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The   sights   we   see,  and    the   sounds   we 

hear, 
Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear  ! ' 

Then  the  Master,  3v 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  1  she  stirs  ! 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'55 


She   starts,  —  she   moves,  — she   seems   to 

feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel,  350 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 
With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 
She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  ! 

And  lo  !  from  the  assembled  crowd 

There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 

That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 

'  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  gray, 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms! ' 

How  beautiful  she  is  !   How  fair  360 

She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 

Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 

Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship  ! 

Through   wind   and    wave,   right    onward 

steer  ! 

The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 
Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 

O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 

And  safe  from  all  adversity  370 

Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 

Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 

For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 

Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust; 

And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 

Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! 
Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great  ! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years,  38o 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock; 
'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail,  390 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our   hearts,  our   hopes,  our  prayers,  our 
tears, 


Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee  ! 1 
1849.  1849." 


THE   LADDER   OF   SAINT 
AUGUSTINE 

SAINT  AUGUSTINE  !   well  hast  thou  said,3 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame  ! 

All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 

That  makes  another's  virtues  less;          » 
The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 

And  all  occasions  of  excess; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 

Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth; 

All  thoughts  of  ill;  all  evil  deeds, 

That    have    their    root   in   thoughts   of 
ill; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 

The  action  of  the  nobler  will;  —  20 


1  These  lines,  written  twelve  years  before  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Civil  War  (and  substituted  for  a  weaker 
ending  with  which  Longfellow  was  dissatisfied  —  see  the 
Life,  vol.  iii,  pp.  363,  443^4),  seemed  word  by  word  to 
fit  the  circumstances  and  feelings  of  the  nation  in  that 
great  struggle,  and  during  its  progress  rous^ ^  thousands 
of  audiences  to  passionate  enthusiasm.    Lincoln's  feel- 
ing for  them  typifies  that  of  the  whole  people.     Mr. 
Noah  Brooks  in  his  paper  on  Lincoln's  !:nagination 
(Scribner's  Monthly,  August,  1879),  mentions  that  he 
found  the  President  one  day  attracted  by  these  stanzas, 
quoted  in  a  political  speech.      'Knowing  the  whole 
poem,'  he  adds,  '  as  one  of  my  early  exercises  in  reci- 
tation, I  began,  at  his  request,  with  the  description  of 
the  launch  of  the  ship,  and  repeated  it  to  the  end.     As 
he  listened  to  the  last  lines,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  his  cheeks  were  wet.     He  did  not  speak  for  some 
minutes,  but  finally  said,  with  simplicity  :  "  It  is  a  won- 
derful gift  to  be  able  to  stir  men  like  that."  '     (Quoted 
in  the  Cambridge  Edition  of  Longfellow.)    The  first 
public  reading  of  the  poem,  by  Fanny  Kemble,  is  de- 
scribed in  Lonpfellow's  Journal,  February  12,  1850. 
Life,  vol.  ii,  p.  172. 

2  The   Seaside   and   the   Fireside,  ip    which    'The 
Building  of  the  Ship '   holds  the  first  place,  is  dated 
1850 ;  but  the  book  was  actually  publish  jd  late  in  1849. 

8  The  words  of  St.  Augustine  are,  '  De  vitiis  nostris 
scalam  nobis  facimus,  si  vitia  ipsa  calcamus.'  —  Sermon 
III.  De  Ascensione.  (LONGMHAOW.) 


'56 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs,   30 
When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 

Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights    by  great  men  reached   and 
kept 

Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 
But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 

Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night.          4o 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies, 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain.1 

1850.  (1858.) 


DAYLIGHT   AND    MOONLIGHT 

IN  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon, 
Yesterday  I  saw  the  moon 
Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 
As  a  schoolboy's  paper  kite. 

In  broad  daylight,  yesterday, 
I  read  a  Poet's  mystic  lay; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  at  most 
As  a  phantom,  or  a  ghost. 

But  at  length  the  feverish  day 
Like  a  passion  died  away, 

1  Compare  Tennyson  ('  In  Memoriam  ') :  — 

'  Men  may  rise  on  Btepping-stones 
Of  their  dekd  selves  tolbigher  thing..' 


And  the  night,  serene  and  still, 
Fell  on  village,  vale,  and  hill. 

Then  the  moon,  in  all  her  pride, 
Like  a  spirit  glorified, 
Filled  and  overflowed  the  night 
With  revelations  of  her  light. 

And  the  Poet's  song  again 
Passed  like  music  through  my  brain; 
Night  interpreted  to  me 
All  its  grace  and  mystery. 

1852.  (1858.) 


THE    WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE 
PORTS2 

A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  British  Chan- 
nel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 
And  through  the  window-panes,    on  floor 

and  panel, 
Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It   glanced   on   flowing   flag   and   rippling 

pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships; 
And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black 

cannon 
Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich    and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hithe, 

and  Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day,  10 

To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding 

over, 
When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen     and     silent,    and     like     couchant 

lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 
Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim 

defiance, 
The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from 

their  stations 
On  every  citadel; 

Each  answering  each,  with  morning  saluta- 
tions, 
That  all  was  well.  zo 

2  The  Duke  of  Wellington,  who  died  September  13, 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'57 


And   down  the   coast,   all  taking   up  the 
burden, 

Replied  the  distant  forts, 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of 

azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 
No  morning  gun  from  the  black  fort's  em- 
brasure, 
Awaken  with  its  call ! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 
The  long  line  of  the  coast,  30 

Shall   the   gaunt   figure   of  the  old   Field 

Marshal 
Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  imseen,  a  single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  De- 
stroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 
And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom.  40 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar; 
Ah !  what  a  blow  !  that  made  all  England 
tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,    without,     the     surly    cannon 
waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 
«52.  (1858.) 

THE   TWO   ANGELS1 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 
Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morning 
broke ; 

1  In  a  letter  of  April  25,  1855,  Longfellow  speaks  of 
this  poem  as  'written  on  the  birth  of  my  younger 
daughter,  and  the  death  of  the  young  and  beautiful  wife 
of  my  neighbor  and  friend,  the  poet  Lowell.  It  will 
serve  as  an  answer  to  one  of  your  questions  about  life 
and  its  many  mysteries.  To  these  dark  problems  there 
is  no  other  solution  possible,  except  the  one  word  Pro- 
tider.ce.'  (Life,  vol.  n,  p.  285.) 


The   dawn   was   on   their   faces,   and   be- 
neath, 

The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes 
of  smoke. 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 
Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  oi 

white; 
But   one  was  crowned  with  amaranth,  as 

with  flame, 

And   one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of 
light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way ; 
Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and  doubt 
oppressed,  ,0 

'  Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  be- 
tray 

The   place   where    thy   beloved    are   at 
rest!' 

And  he  who  wore  the  cfown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 
The  waters  sink  before  an  earthquake's 
shock. 

I  recognized  the  nameless  agony, 

The    terror    and    the    tremor   and    the 

pain, 
That   oft  before   had    filled    or    haunted 

me, 

And  now  returned  with  threefold  strength 
again.  20 

The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly  guest, 
And  listened,  for  I  thought  I  heard  God's 

voice ; 
And,   knowing  whatsoe'er    He    sent    was 

best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 

Then  with  a  smile,  that  filled  the    house 

with  light, 
'My  errand  is  not  Death,  but  Life,'  he 

said; 

And  ere  I  answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

'T  was  at  thy  door,  O  friend !  and  not  at 
mine,  2g 

The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 
Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine 
Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound  like 
Death. 


'58 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  shadow   on   those   features   fair   and 

thin; 
And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  darkened 

room, 

Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went 
in. 

All  is  of  God  !     If  He  but  wave  his  hand, 
The  mists  collect,  the  rain  falls  thick  and 
loud, 


Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 

Lo  !  He  looks  back  from  the  departing 

cloud.  40 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  his; 
Without  his  leave  they  pass  no  threshold 

o'er; 
Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing 

this, 

Against  his  messengers  to  shut  the  door  ? 
1853.  (1858.) 


THE   SONG   OF    HIAWATHA 


INTRODUCTION  2 

SHOULD  you  ask  me,  whence  these  stories  ? 
Whence  these  legends  and  traditions, 
With  the  odors  of  the  forest, 
With  the  dew  and  damp  of  meadows, 
With  the  curling  smoke  of  wigwams, 

1  Those  to  whom  '  Hiawatha '  is  familiar  from  their 
childhood,  but  who  feel  it  to  be  hardly  fit  food  for  ma- 
ture intellects,  and  those  who  are  wearied  by  its  repe- 
titions, its  simplicity,  and  the  monotony  of  its  rhythm, 
should  reread  at  least  the  Introduction,  and  Cantos  iii 
(Hiawatha's  Childhood),  vii  (His  Sailing),  x  (His  Woo- 
ing), xi  (The  Famine),  and  xxii  (Hiawatha's  Depart- 
ure). The  whole  poem,  however,  without  omissions, 
is  necessary  to  any  real  knowledge  of  Longfellow's 
work  or  of  American  poetry.  The  simplicity  of  his  own 
character  enabled  him  to  reproduce  the  effects  of  prim- 
itive poetry  and  legend  better  than  other  modern  poets 
have  done,  and  to  create  what  is  at  least  our  nearest 
approach  to  an  American  epic.  It  is  greatly  superior  to 
all  other  attempts  at  epic  treatment  of  the  Indian  le- 
gends. Bayard  Taylor  said  of  it :  '  It  will  be  parodied, 
perhaps  ridiculed,  in  many  quarters,  but  it  will  live 
after  the  Indian  race  has  vanished  from  our  Continent, 
and  there  will  be  no  parodies  then.'  Emerson  called  it 
'sweet  and  wholesome  as  maize.' 

Longfellow  wrote  '  Hiawatha '  with  more  enthusiasm 
than  any  other  of  his  poems.  Cf.  the  Journal,  October 
19, 1854 :  ' "  Hiawatha  "  occupies  and  delights  me.  Have 
I  no  misgivings  about  it?  Yes,  sometimes.  Then  the 
theme  seizes  me  and  hurries  me  away,  and  they  vanish.' 
(Life,  vol.  ii,  p.  277.)  '  The  hero,'  he  wrote  to  Freilig- 
rath  (who  afterward  translated  "Hiawatha"  into  Ger- 
man), '  is  a  kind  of  American  Prometheus.'  From  the 
first  he  felt  sure  of  his  subject  and  his  metre  :  '  I  have 
at  length  hit  upon  a  plan  for  a  poem  on  the  American 
Indians,  which  seems  to  me  the  right  one,  and  the  only. 
It  is  to  weave  together  their  beautiful  traditions  into  a 
whole.  I  have  hit  upon  a  measure,  too,  which  I  think 
the  right  and  only  one  for  such  a  theme.'  (Journal, 
June  22,  1854.) 

The  metre  was  avowedly  taken  from  that  of  the  Fin- 
nish epic  KalevaJn,  which  he  had  read  with  Freiligrath 
twelve  years  before.  See  Freiligrath's  letter  in  the 
London  Athenaeum,  December  22,  1855. 

On  the  sources  from  which  Longfellow  drew  his  ma- 
terial, see  his  own  notes  given  below. 

Further,  on  '  Hiawatha,'  see  :  — 

Life,  vol.  ii,  pp.  272-311. 

Longfellow  (Alice  M.),  A  Visit  to  Hiawatha's  People. 

Schoolcraft  (Henry  R.),  The  Myth  of  Hiawatha  and 


With  the  rushing  of  great  rivers, 
With  their  frequent  repetitions, 
And  their  wild  reverberations, 
As  of  thunder  in  the  mountains  ? 

I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you,         i& 
'  From  the  forests  and  the  prairies, 
From  the  great  lakes  of  the  Northland, 
From  the  land  of  the  O  jib  ways, 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
From  the  mountains,  moors,  and  fenlands 
Where  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

other  Oral  Legends,  Mylhologic  and  Allegoric,  of  the 
North  American  Indians. 

Broili  (Otto),  Die  Haiiplquellen  Longfellows  Song  of 
Hiawatha.  Wurzburg,  1898. 

Lang  (Andrew),  Letters  on  Literature. 

Cracroft,  Essays,  vol.  ii  (on  the  translation  of  parts  of 
'  Hiawatha  '  into  Latin,  for  school  use,  by  F.  W.  New- 
mt.n). 

Hale  (E.  E.),  in  the  North  American  Review,  January, 
1856. 

Chasles  (Philarete),  in  the  Journal  des  Debats,  April 
20,1856. 

Mont^gut  (finale),  in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondfs, 
June,  1857. 

Hale  (Henry),  '  Hiawatha  played  by  real  Indians,'  in 
the  Critic,  July,  1005. 

2  This  Indian  Edda  —  if  I  may  so  call  it  —  is  founded 
on  a  tradition,  prevalent  among  the  North  American 
Indians,  of  a  personage  of  miraculous  birth,  who  was 
sent  among  them  to  clear  their  rivers,  forests,  and  fish- 
ing-ground^, and  to  teach  them  the  arts  of  peace.  He 
was  known  among  different  tribes  by  the  several  names 
of  Michabou,  Cliiabo,  Manabozo,  Tarenya-wagon  and 
Hiawatha.  Mr.  Schoolcraft  gives  an  account  of  him  in 
his  Aloic  Researches,  vol.  i,  p.  134,  and  in  his  History, 
Condition,  and  Prospects  of  the  Indian  Tribes  of  thti 
United  States,  part  iii,  p.  314,  maybe  found  the  Iroquois 
form  of  the  tradition,  derived  from  the  verbal  narra- 
tions of  an  Onondaga  chief. 

Into  this  old  tradition  I  have  woven  other  curious 
Indian  legends,  drawn  chiefly  from  the  various  and  val- 
uable writings  of  Mr.  Schoolcraft.  to  whom  the  literary 
world  is  greatly  indebted  for  his  indefatigable  zeal  in 
rescuing  from  oblivion  so  much  of  the  legendary  lore  of 
the  Indians. 

The  scene  of  the  poem  is  among  the  Ojibways  on  the 
southern  shore  of  Lake  Superior,  in  the  region  between 
the  Pictured  Rocks  and  the  Grand  Sable.  (LONGFELLOW.! 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'59 


I  repeat  them  as  I  heard  them 

From  the  lips  of  Nawadaha, 

The  musician,  the  sweet  singer.'  20 

Should  you  ask  where  Nawadaha 
Found  these  songs  so  wild  and  wayward, 
Found  these  legends  and  traditions, 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
'  In  the  bird's-nests  of  the  forest, 
In  the  lodges  of  the  beaver, 
In  the  hoof-prints  of  the  bison, 
In  the  eyry  of  the  eagle  ! 

'  All  the  wild-fowl  sang  them  to  him, 
In  the  moorlands  and  the  fen-lands,  30 

In  the  melancholy  marshes; 
Chetowaik,  the  plover,  sang  them, 
Mahng,  the  loon,  the  wild-goose,  Wawa, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa  ! ' 

If  still  further  you  should  ask  me, 
Saying,  '  Who  was  Nawadaha  ? 
Tell  us  of  this  Nawadaha,' 
I  should  answer  your  inquiries 
Straightway  in  such  words  as  follow.         40 

'  In  the  vale  of  Tawasentha,1 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley, 
By  the  pleasant  water-courses, 
Dwelt  the  singer  Nawadaha. 
Round  about  the  Indian  village 
Spread  the  meadpws  and  the  corn-fields, 
And  beyond  them  stood  the  forest, 
Stood  the  groves  of  singing  pine-trees, 
Green  in  Summer,  white  in  Winter, 
Ever  sighing,  ever  singing.  5o 

'  And  the  pleasant  water-courses, 
You  could  trace  them  through  the  valley, 
By  the  rushing  in  the  Spring-time, 
By  the  alders  in  the  Summer, 
By  the  white  fog  in  the  Autumn, 
By  the  black  line  in  the  Winter; 
And  beside  them  dwelt  the  singer, 
In  the  vale  of  Tawasentha, 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley. 

'  There  he  sang  of  Hiawatha,  60 

Sang  the  Song  of  Hiawatha, 
Sang  his  wondrous  birth  and  being, 
How  he  prayed  and  how  he  fasted, 
How  he  lived,  and  toiled,  and  suffered, 
That  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper, 
That  he  might  advance  his  people  ! ' 

Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow, 
Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 
Love  the  wind  among  the  branches,  7o 

1  This  valley,  now  called  Norman's  Kill,  is  in  Albany 
County,  New  York.    (LONGFELLOW.) 


And  the  rain-shower  and  the  snow-storm, 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers 
Through  their  palisades  of  pine-trees, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  mountains, 
Whose  innumerable  echoes 
Flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries;  — 
Listen  to  these  wild  traditions, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  who  love  a  nation's  legends, 
Love  the  ballads  of  a  people,  80 

That  like  voices  from  afar  off 
Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen, 
Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike, 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken;  — 
Listen  to  this  Indian  Legend, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Natare, 
Who  believe  that  in  all  ages  gc 

Every  human  heart  is  human, 
That  in  even  savage  bosoms 
There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 
That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 
Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 
Touch  God's  right  hand  in  that  darkness 
And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened ;  — 
Listen  to  this  simple  story, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  !  100 

Ye,  who  sometimes,  in  your  rambles 
Through  the  green  lanes  of  the  country, 
Where  the  tangled  barberry-bushes 
Hang  their  tufts  of  crimson  berries 
Over  stone  walls  gray  with  mosses, 
Pause  by  some  neglected  graveyard, 
For  a  while  to  muse,  and  ponder 
On  a  half-effaced  inscription, 
Written  with  little  skill  of  song-craft, 
Homely  phrases,  but  each  letter  no 

Full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heart-break, 
Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 
Of  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter;  — 
Stay  and  read  this  rude  inscription, 
Read  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 


THE   PEACE-PIPE  2 

ON  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
On  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry, 

*  Mr.  Catlin.  in  his  Letters  and  Notes  on  the  Manneri, 
Customs,  and  Condition  of  the  North  American  In- 
dians, vol.  ii,  p.  160,  gives  an  interesting  account  of  the 


i6o 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
He  the  Master  of  Life,  descending, 
On  the  red  crags  of  the  quarry 
Stood  erect,  and  called  the  nations, 
Called  the  tribes  of  men  together. 

From  his  footprints  flowed  a  river, 
Leaped  into  the  light  of  morning, 
O'er  the  precipice  plunging  downward      10 
Gleamed  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet. 
And  the  Spirit,  stooping  earthward, 
With  his  finger  on  the  meadow 
Traced  a  winding  pathway  for  it, 
Saying  to  it,  '  Run  in  this  way  ! ' 

From  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry 
With  his  hand  he  broke  a  fragment, 
Moulded  it  into  a  pipe-head, 
Shaped  and  fashioned  it  with  figures; 
From  the  margin  of  the  river  20 

Took  a  long  reed  for  a  pipe-stem, 
With  its  dark  green  leaves  upon  it; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
With  the  bark  of  the  red  willow; 
Breathed  upon  the  neighboring  forest, 
Made  its  great  boughs  chafe  together, 
Till  in  flame  they  burst  and  kindled; 
And  erect  upon  the  mountains, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
Smoked  the  calumet,  the  Peace-Pipe,        30 
As  a  signal  to  the  nations. 

And  the  smoke  rose  slowly,  slowly, 
Through  the  tranquil  air  of  morning, 
First  a  single  line  of  darkness, 
Then  a  denser,  bluer  vapor, 


Cdteau  des  Prairies,  and  the  Red  Pipestone  Quarry. 
He  says :  — 

'  Here  (according  to  their  traditions)  happened  the 
mysterious  birth  of  the  red  pipe,  which  has  blown  its 
fumes  of  peace  and  war  to  the  remotest  corners  of  the 
continent ;  which  has  visited  every  warrior,  and  passed 
through  its  reddened  stem  the  irrevocable  oath  of  war 
and  desolation.  And  here,  also,  the  peace-breathing 
calumet  was  born,  and  fringed  with  the  eagle's  quills, 
which  has  shed  its  thrilling  fumes  over  the  land,  and 
soothed  the  fury  of  the  relentless  savage. 

'  The  Great  Spirit  at  an  ancient  period  here  called  the 
Indian  nations  together,  and,  standing  on  the  precipice 
of  the  red  pipe-stone  rock,  broke  from  its  wall  a  piece, 
and  made  a  huge  pipe  by  turning  it  in  his  hand,  which 
he  smoked  over  them,  and  to  the  North,  the  South,  the 
East,  and  the  West,  and  told  them  that  this  stone  was 
red,  —  that  it  was  their  flesh,  —  that  they  must  use  it  for 
their  pipes  of  peace,  — that  it  belonged  to  them  all,  and 


that  the  war-club  and  scalping-knife  must  not  be  raised 
on  its  ground.  At  the  last  whiff  of  his  pipe  his  heatf 
went  into  a  great  cloud,  and  the  whole  surface  of  th< 


rock  for  several  miles  was  melted  and  glazed ;  two  great 
ovens  were  opened  beneath,  and  two  women  (guardian 
spirits  of  the  place)  entered  them  in  a  blaze  of  fire  ;  and 
they  are  heard  there  yet  (Tso-mec-cos-tee  and  Tso-me- 
cos-te-won-dee),  answering  to  the  invocations  of  the 
high-priests  or  ./icJicine-men,  who  consult  them  when 
they  are  visitors  to  this  sacred  place.'  (LONGFELLOW.) 


Then  a  snow-white  cloud  unfolding, 

Like  the  tree-tops  of  the  forest, 

Ever  rising,  rising,  rising, 

Till  it  touched  the  top  of  heaven, 

Till  it  broke  against  the  heaven,  4o 

And  rolled  outward  all  around  it. 

From  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
From  the  Valley  of  Wyoming, 
From  the  groves  of  Tuscaloosa, 
From  the  far-off  Rocky  Mountains, 
From  the  Northern  lakes  and  rivers 
All  the  tribes  beheld  the  signal, 
Saw  the  distant  smoke  ascending, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe. 

And  the  Prophets  of  the  nations  yt 

Said:  '  Behold  it,  the  Pukwana  ! 
By  this  signal  from  afar  off, 
Bending  like  a  wand  of  willow, 
Waving  like  a  hand  that  beckons, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
Calls  the  tribes  of  men  together, 
Calls  the  warriors  to  his  council ! ' 

Down  the  rivers,  o'er  the  prairies, 
Came  the  warriors  of  the  nations, 
Came  the  Delawares  and  Mohawks,  &> 

Came  the  Choctaws  and  Camanches, 
Came  the  Shoshonies  and  Blackfeet, 
Came  the  Pawnees  and  Omahas, 
Came  the  Mandans  and  D^cotahs, 
Came  the  Hurons  and  Ojibways, 
All  the  warriors  drawn  together 
By  the  signal  of  the  Peace-Pipe, 
To  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
To  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry. 

And  they  stood  there  on  the  meadow,  71 
With  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Painted  like  the  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Wildly  glaring  at  each  other; 
In  their  faces  stern  defiance, 
In  their  hearts  the  feuds  of  ages, 
The  hereditary  hatred, 
The  ancestral  thirst  of  vengeance. 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
The  creator  of  the  nations,  &. 

Looked  upon  them  with  compassion, 
With  paternal  love  and  pity; 
Looked  upon  their  wrath  and  wrangling 
But  as  quarrels  among  children, 
But  as  feuds  and  fights  of  children  ! 

Over  them  he  stretched  his  right  hand, 
To  subdue  their  stubborn  natures, 
To  allay  their  thirst  and  fever, 
By  the  shadow  of  his  right  hand; 
Spake  to  them  with  voice  majestic  90 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


161 


As  the  sound  of  far-off  waters, 

Falling  into  deep  abysses. 

Warning,  chiding,  spake  in  this  wise :  — 

'  O  my  children  !  my  poor  children  ! 
Listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  words  of  warning, 
From  the  lips  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
From  the  Master  of  Life,  who  made  you  ! 

'  I  have  given  you  lands  to  hunt  in, 
I  have  given  you  streams  to  fish  in,          100 
I  have  given  you  bear  and  bison, 
I  have  given  you  roe  and  reindeer, 
I  have  given  you  brant  and  beaver, 
Filled  the  marshes  full  of  wild-fowl, 
Filled  the  rivers  full  of  fishes; 
Why  then  are  you  not  contented  ? 
Why  then  will  you  hunt  each  other  ? 

'  I  am  weary  of  your  quarrels, 
Weary  of  your  wars  and  bloodshed, 
Weary  of  your  prayers  for  vengeance,     no 
Of  your  wranglings  and  dissensions; 
All  your  strength  is  in  your  union, 
All  your  danger  is  in  discord; 
Therefore  be  at  peace  henceforward, 
And  as  brothers  live  together. 

'  I  will  send  a  Prophet  to  you, 
A  Deliverer  of  the  nations, 
Who  shall  guide  you  and  shall  teach  you, 
Who  shall  toil  and  suffer  with  you. 
If  you  listen  to  his  counsels,  120 

You  will  multiply  and  prosper; 
If  his  warnings  pass  unheeded, 
You  will  fade  away  and  perish  ! 

'  Bathe  now  in  the  stream  before  you, 
Wash  the  war-paint  from  your  faces, 
Wash  the  blood-stains  from  your  fingers, 
Bury  your  war-clubs  and  your  weapons, 
Break  the  red  stone  from  this  quarry, 
Mould  and  make  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Take  the  reeds  that  grow  beside  you,      130 
Deck  them  with  your  brightest  feathers, 
Smoke  the  calumet  together, 
And  as  brothers  live  henceforward  !  ' 

Then  upon  the  ground  the  warriors 
Threw  their  cloaks  and  shirts  of  deer-skin, 
Threw  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Leaped  into  the  rushing  river, 
Washed  the  war-paint  from  their  faces. 
Clear  above  them  flowed  the  water, 
Clear  and  limpid  from  the  footprints       140 
Of  the  Master  of  Life  descending; 
Dark  below  them  flowed  the  water, 
Soiled  and  stained  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
As  if  blood  were  mingled  with  it ! 

From  the  river  came  the  warriors, 


Clean  and  washed  from  all  their  war-paint; 
On  the  banks  their  clubs  they  buried, 
Buried  all  their  warlike  weapons. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  creator,  150 

Smiled  upon  his  helpless  children  ! 
And  in  silence  all  the  warriors  - 
Broke  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry, 
Smoothed  and  formed  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Broke  the  long  reeds  by  the  river, 
Decked  them  with  their  brightest  feathers, 
And  departed  each  one  homeward, 
While  the  Master  of  Life,  ascending, 
Through  the  opening  of  cloud-curtains, 
Through  the  doorways  of  the  heaven,       160 
Vanished  from  before  their  faces, 
In  the  smoke  that  rolled  around  him, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe  ! 


II 

THE   FOUR   WINDS 

'  HONOR  be  to  Mudjekeewis  !  ' 
Cried  the  warriors,  cried  the  old  men, 
When  he  came  in  triumph  homeward 
With  the  sacred  Belt  of  Wampum, 
From  the  regions  of  the  North- Wind, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 

He  had  stolen  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
From  the  neck  of  Mishe-Mokwa, 
From  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains,    10 
From  the  terror  of  the  nations, 
As  he  lay  asleep  and  cumbrous 
On  the  summit  of  the  mountains, 
Like  a  rock  with  mosses  on  it, 
Spotted  brown  and  gray  with  mosses. 

Silently  he  stole  upon  him 
Till  the  red  nails  of  the  monster 
Almost  touched  him,  almost  scared  him; 
Till  the  hot  breath  of  his  nostrils 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis,          20 
As  he  drew  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
Over  the  round  ears,  that  heard  not, 
Over  the  small  eyes,  that  saw  not, 
Over  the  long  nose  and  nostrils, 
The  black  muffle  of  the  nostrils, 
Out  of  which  the  heavy  breathing 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis. 

Then  he  swung  aloft  his  war-club, 
Shouted  loud  and  long  his  war-cry, 
Smote  the  mighty  Mishe-Mokwa  30 

In  the  middle  of  the  forehead, 
Right  between  the  eyes  he  smote  him. 


162 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


With  the  heavy  blow  bewildered, 
Rose  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains; 
But  his  knees  beneath  him  trembled. 
And  he  whimpered  like  a  woman, 
As  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 
As  he  sat  upon  his  haunches; 
And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 
Standing  fearlessly  before  him,  40 

Taunted  him  in  loud  derision, 
Spake  disdainfully  in  this  wise :  — 

'  Hark  you,  Bear  !  you  are  a  coward; l 
And  no  Brave,  as  you  pretended; 
Else  you  would  not  cry  and  whimper 
Like  a  miserable  woman  ! 
Bear  !  you  know  our  tribes  are  hostile, 
Long  have  been  at  war  together; 
Now  you  find  that  we  are  strongest, 
You  go  sneaking  in  the  forest,  50 

You  go  hiding  in  the  mountains  ! 
Had  you  conquered  me  in  battle 
Not  a  groan  would  I  have  uttered; 
But  you,  Bear  !  sit  here  and  whimper, 
And  disgrace  your  tribe  by  crying, 
Like  a  wretched  Shaugodaya, 
Like  a  cowardly  old  woman  ! ' 

Then  again  he  raised  his  war-club, 
Smote  again  the  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  his  forehead,  60 

Broke  his  skull,  as  ice  is  broken 
When  one  goes  to  fish  in  winter. 
Thus  was  slain  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 
He  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains, 
He  the  terror  of  the  nations. 

'  Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! ' 
With  a  shout  exclaimed  the  people, 
'  Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! 
Henceforth  he  shall  be  the  West-Wind, 
And  hereafter  and  forever  70 

Shall  he  hold  supreme  dominion 
Over  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Call  him  no  more  Mudjekeewis, 
Call  him  Kabeyun,  the  West- Wind  ! ' 

Thus  was  Mudjekeewis  chosen 
Father  of  the  Winds  of  Heaven. 
For  himself  he  kept  the  West-Wind, 
Gave  the  others  to  his  children; 

1  This  anecdote  is  from  Heckewelder.  In  his  ac- 
count of  the  Indian  Nations,  he  describes  an  Indian 
hunter  as  addressing  a  bear  in  nearly  these  words.  '  I 
was  present,'  he  says,  '  at  the  delivery  of  this  curious 
invective  ;  when  the  hunter  had  despatched  the  bear,  I 
asked  him  how  he  thought  that  poor  animal  could  un- 
derstand what  he  said  to  it.  "  Oh,"  said  he  in  answer, 
"  the  bear  understood  me  very  well ;  did  you  not  ob- 
serve how  ashamed  he  looked  while  I  was  upbraiding 
him  ?  "  '  —  Transactions  of  the  American  Philosophical 
Society,  vol.  i.  p.  240.  (I/ONOFKLLOW.) 


Unto  Wabun  gave  the  East-Wind, 
Gave  the  South  to  Shawondasee, 
And  the  North-Wind,  wild  and  cruel, 
To  the  fierce  Kabibonokka. 

Young  and  beautiful  was  Wabun; 
He  it  was  who  brought  the  morning, 
He  it  was  whose  silver  arrows 
Chased  the  dark  o'er  hill  and  valley; 
He  it  was  whose  cheeks  were  painted 
With  the  brightest  streaks  of  crimson, 
And  whose  voice  awoke  the  village, 
Called  the  deer  and  called  the  hunter. 

Lonely  in  the  sky  was  Wabun; 
Ttumgh  the  birds  sang  gayly  to  him, 
Though  the  wild-flowers  of  the  meadow 
Filled  the  air  with  odors  for  him ; 
Though  the  forests  and  the  rivers 
Sang  and  shouted  at  his  coming, 
Still  his  heart  was  sad  within  him, 
For  he  was  alone  in  heaven. 

But  one  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
While  the  village  still  was  sleeping, 
And  the  fog  lay  on  the  river, 
Like  a  ghost,  that  goes  at  sunrise, 
He  beheld  a  maiden  walking 
All  alone  upon  a  meadow, 
Gathering  water-flags  and  rushes 
By  a  river  in  the  meadow. 

Every  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
Still  the  first  thing  he  beheld  there 
Was  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  him, 
Two  blue  lakes  among  the  rushes. 
And  he  loved  the  lonely  maiden, 
Who  thus  waited  for  his  coming; 
For  they  both  were  solitary, 
She  on  earth  and  he  in  heaven. 

And  he  wooed  her  with  caresses, 
Wooed  her  with  his  smile  of  sunshine, 
With  his  flattering  words  he  wooed  her, 
With  his  sighing  and  his  singing, 
Gentlest  whispers  in  the  branches, 
Softest  music,  sweetest  odors, 
Till  he  drew  her  to  his  bosom, 
Folded  in  his  robes  of  crimson, 
Till  into  a  star  he  changed  her, 
Trembling  still  upon  his  bosom; 
And  forever  in  the  heavens 
They  are  seen  together  walking, 
Wabun  and  the  Wabun-Annung, 
Wabun  and  the  Star  of  Morning. 

But  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Had  his  dwelling  among  icebergs, 
In  the  everlasting  snow-drifts, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
In  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


163 


He  it  was  whose  hand  in  Autumn 
Painted  all  the  trees  with  scarlet, 
Stained  the  leaves  with  red  and  yellow; 
He  it  was  who  sent  the  snow-flakes, 
Sifting,  hissing  through  the  forest, 
Froze  the  ponds,  the  lakes,  the  rivers, 
Drove  the  loon  and  sea-gull  southward,   140 
Drove  the  cormorant  and  curlew 
To  their  nests  of  sedge  and  sea-tang 
In  the  realms  of  Shawondasee. 

Once  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Issued  from  his  lodge  of  snow-drifts, 
From  his  home  among  the  icebergs, 
And  his  hair,  with  snow  besprinkled, 
Streamed  behind  him  like  a  river, 
Like  a  black  and  wintry  river, 
As  he  howled  and  hurried  southward,      150 
Over  frozen  lakes  and  moorlands. 

There  among  the  reeds  and  rushes 
Found  he  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Trailing  strings  of  fish  behind  him, 
O'er  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands, 
Lingering  still  among  the  moorlands, 
Though  his  tribe  had  long  departed 
To  the  land  of  Shawondasee. 

Cried  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 
'  Who  is  this  that  dares  to  brave  me  ?      160 
Dares  to  stay  in  my  dominions, 
When  the  Wawa  has  departed, 
When  the  wild-goose  has  gone  southward, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long  ago  departed  southward  ? 
I  will  go  into  his  wigwam, 
I  will  put  his  smouldering  fire  out ! ' 

And  at  night  Kabibonokka 
To  the  lodge  came  wild  and  wailing, 
Heaped  the  snow  in  drifts  about  it,  170 

Shouted  down  into  the  smoke-flue, 
Shook  the  lodge-poles  in  his  fury, 
Flapped  the  curtain  of  the  door-way. 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  feared  not, 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  cared  not; 
Four  great  logs  had  he  for  firewood, 
One  for  each  moon  of  the  winter, 
And  for  food  the  fishes  served  him. 
By  his  blazing  fire  he  sat  there, 
Warm  and  merry,  eating,  laughing,          180 
Singing,  '  O  Kabibonokka, 
You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal ! ' 

Then  Kabibonokka  entered, 
And  though  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Felt  his  presence  by  the  coldness, 
Felt  his  icy  breath  upon  him, 
Still  he  did  not  cease  his  singing, 
Still  he  did  not  leave  his  laughing, 


Only  turned  the  log  a  little, 

Only  made  the  fire  burn  brighter,  190 

Made  the  sparks  fly  up  the  smoke-flue. 

From  Kabibonokka 's  forehead, 
From  his  snow-besprinkled  tresses, 
Drops  of  sweat  fell  fast  and  heavy, 
Making  dints  upon  the  ashes, 
As  along  the  eaves  of  lodges, 
As  from  drooping  boughs  of  hemlock, 
Drips  the  melting  snow  in  spring-time, 
Making  hollows  in  the  snow-drifts. 

Till  at  last  he  rose  defeated,  200 

Could  not  bear  the  heat  and  laughter, 
Could  not  bear  the  merry  singing, 
But  rushed  headlong  through  the  door- way, 
Stamped  upon  the  crusted  snow-drifts, 
Stamped  upon  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
Made  the  snow  upon  them  harder, 
Made  the  ice  iipon  them  thicker, 
Challenged  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
To  come  forth  and  wrestle  with  him, 
To  come  forth  and  wrestle  naked  2io 

On  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands. 

Forth  went  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Wrestled  all  night  with  the  North- Wind, 
Wrestled  naked  on  the  moorlands 
With  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 
Till  his  panting  breath  grew  fainter, 
Till  his  frozen  grasp  grew  feebler, 
Till  he  reeled  and  staggered  backward, 
And  retreated,  baffled,  beaten, 
To  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso,  220 

To  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit, 
Hearing  still  the  gusty  laughter, 
Hearing  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Singing,  '  O  Kabibonokka, 
You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal  ! ' 

Shawondasee,  fat  and  lazy, 
Had  his  dwelling  far  to  southward, 
In  the  drowsy,  dreamy  sunshine, 
In  the  never-ending  Summer. 
He  it  was  who  sent  the  wood-birds,          130 
Sent  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Sent  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
Sent  the  Shawshaw,  sent  the  swallow, 
Sent  the  wild-goose,  Wawa,  northward, 
Sent  the  melons  and  tobacco, 
And  the  grapes  in  purple  clusters. 

From  his  pipe  the  smoke  ascending 
Filled  the  sky  with  haze  and  vapor, 
Filled  the  air  with  dreamy  softness, 
Gave  a  twinkle  to  the  water,  240 

Touched    the   rugged   hills   with    smooth- 
ness, 
Brought  the  tender  Indian  Summer 


i64 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


To  the  melancholy  north-land, 

In  the  dreary  Moon  of  Snow-shoes. 

Listless,  careless  Shawondasee  ! 
In  his  life  he  had  one  shadow, 
In  his  heart  one  sorrow  had  he. 
Once,  as  he  was  gazing  northward, 
Far  away  upon  a  prairie 
He  beheld  a  maiden  standing,  250 

Saw  a  tall  and  slender  maiden 
All  alone  upon  a  prairie; 
Brightest  green  were  all  her  garments, 
And  her  hair  was  like  the  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  he  gazed  upon  her, 
Day  by  day  he  sighed  with  passion, 
Day  by  day  his  heart  within  him 
Grew  more  hot  with  love  and  longing 
For  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses. 
But  he  was  too  fat  and  lazy  260 

To  bestir  himself  and  woo  her. 
Yes,  too  indolent  and  easy 
To  pursue  her  and  persuade  her; 
So  he  only  gazed  upon  her, 
Only  sat  and  sighed  with  passion 
For  the  maiden  of  the  prairie. 

Till  one  morning,  looking  northward, 
He  beheld  her  yellow  tresses 
Changed    and    covered    o'er   with   white- 
ness, 

Covered  as  with  whitest  snow-flakes.        270 
'  Ah  !  my  brother  from  the  North-land, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit ! 
You  have  stolen  the  maiden  from  me, 
You  have  laid  your  hand  upon  her, 
You  have  wooed  and  won  my  maiden, 
With  your  stories  of  the  North-land  ! ' 

Thus  the  wretched  Shawondasee 
Breathed  into  the  air  his  sorrow; 
And  the  South-Wind  o'er  the  prairie        280 
Wandered  warm  with  sighs  of  passion, 
With  the  sighs  of  Shawondasee, 
Till  the  air  seemed  full  of  snow-flakes, 
Full  of  thistle-down  the  prairie, 
And  the  maid  with  hair  like  sunshine 
Vanished  from  his  sight  forever; 
Never  more  did  Shawondasee 
See  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses  ! 

Poor,  deluded  Shawondasee  !  • 
'T  was  no  woman  that  you  gazed  at,         290 
'T  was  no  maiden  that  you  sighed  for, 
'T  was  the  prairie  dandelion 
That  through  all  the  dreamy  Summer 
You  had  gazed  at  with  such  longing, 
You  had  sighed  for  with  such  passion, 
And  had  puffed  away  forever, 


Blown  into  the  air  with  sighing. 
Ah  !  deluded  Shawondasee  ! 

Thus  the  Four  Winds  were  divided; 
Thus  the  sons  of  Mudjekeewis  300 

Had  their  stations  in  the  heavens, 
At  the  corners  of  the  heavens; 
For  himself  the  West-Wind  only 
Kept  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis. 

Ill 
HIAWATHA'S  CHILDHOOD 

DOWNWARD  through  the  evening  twilight, 

In  the  days  that  are  forgotten, 

In  the  unremernbered  ages, 

From  the  full  moon  fell  JS'okoinis, 

Fell  the  beautiful  Nokomis, 

She  a  wife,  but  not  a  mother. 

She  was  sporting  with  her  women, 
Swinging  in  a  swing  of  grape-vines, 
When  her  rival  the  rejected, 
Full  of  jealousy  and  hatred,  10 

Cut  the  leafy  swing  asunder, 
Cut  in  twain  the  twisted  grape-vines, 
And  Nokomis  fell  affrighted 
Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
On  the  prairie  full  of  blossoms. 
'  See  !  a  star  falls  ! '  said  the  people ; 
'  From  the  sky  a  star  is  falling  ! ' 

There  among  the  ferns  and  mosses, 
There  among  the  prairie  lilies,  20 

On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
In  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight, 
Fair  Nokomis  bore  a  daughter. 
And  she  called  her  name  Wenonah, 
As  the  first-born  of  her  daughters. 
And  the  daughter  of  Nokomis 
Grew  up  like  the  prairie  lilies, 
Grew  a  tall  and  slender  maiden, 
With  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight, 
With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight.  30 

And  Nokomis  warned  her  often, 
Saying  oft,  and  oft  repeating, 
'  Oh,  beware  of  Mudjekeewis, 
Of  the  West- Wind,  Mudjekeewis; 
Listen  not  to  what  he  tells  you; 
Lie  not  down  upon  the  meadow, 
Stoop  not  down  among  the  lilies, 
Lest  the  West- Wind  come  and  harm  you  ! ' 

But  she  heeded  not  the  warning, 
Heeded  not  those  words  of  wisdom,  4c 

And  the  West- Wind  came  at  evening, 


HENRY   WADSVVORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'65 


Walking  lightly  o'er  the  prairie, 

Whispering  to  the  leaves  and  blossoms, 

Bending  low  the  flowers  and  grasses, 

Found  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 

Lying  there  among  the  lilies, 

Wooed  her  with  his  words  of  sweetness, 

Wooed  her  with  his  soft  caresses, 

Till  she  bore  a  son  in  sorrow, 

Bore  a  son  of  love  and  sorrow.  50 

Thus  was  born  my  Hiawatha, 
Thus  was  born  the  child  of  wonder; 
But  the  daughter  of  Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's  gentle  mother, 
In  her  anguish  died  deserted 
By  the  West-Wind,  false  and  faithless, 
By  the  heartless  Mudjekeewis. 

For  her  daughter  long  and  loudly 
Wailed  and  wept  the  sad  Nokomis; 
'  Oh  that  I  were  dead  ! '  she  murmured,    60 
'  Oh  that  I  were  dead,  as  thou  art ! 
No  more  work,  and  no  more  weeping, 
Wahonowin  !  Wahonowin  ! ' 

By  the  shores  of  Gitche  Guinee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 
Dark  behind  it  rose  the  forest, 
Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-trees, 
Rose  the  firs  with  cones  upon  them;          70 
Bright  before  it  beat  the  water, 
Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 
Beat  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water. 

There  the  wrinkled  old  Nokomis 
Nursed  the  little  Hiawatha, 
Rocked  him  in  his  linden  cradle, 
Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes, 
Safely  bound  with  reindeer  sinews; 
Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  saying, 
'  Hush  !  the  Naked  Bear  will  hear  thee  ! '  So 
Lulled  him  into  slumber,  singing, 
'  Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet ! 
Who  is  this,  that  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet  ! ' 

Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 
Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven; 
Showed  him  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresses; 
Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits,    go 
Warriors    with    their    plumes    and    war- 
clubs, 

Flaring  far  away  to  northward 
In  the  frosty  nights  of  Winter; 
Showed  the  broad  white  road  in  heaven, 
Pathway  of  the  ghosts,  the  shadows, 


Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 
Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  the  shadows. 

At  the  door  on  summer  evenings 
Sat  the  little  Hiawatha; 
Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-trees, 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  waters,  101 

Sounds  of  music,  words  of  wonder; 
'  Minne-wawa  ! '  said  the  pine-trees, 
'  Mudway-aushka  ! '  said  the  water. 

Saw  the  fire-fly,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening, 
With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 
Lighting  up  the  brakes  and  bushes, 
And  he  sang  the  song  of  children, 
Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him:         no 
'  Wah-wah-taysee,  little  fire-fly, 
Little,  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 
Little,  dancing,  white-fire  creature, 
Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 
Ere  upon  my  bed  I  lay  me, 
Ere  in  sleep  I  close  my  eyelids  ! ' 

Saw  the  moon  rise  from  the  water 
Rippling,  rounding  from  the  water, 
Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 
Whispered,  '  What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?  '    1*0 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered: 
'  Once  a  warrior,  very  angry, 
Seized  his  grandmother,  and  threw  her 
Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight; 
Right  against  the  moon  he  threw  her; 
'T  is  her  body  that  you  see  there.' 

Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 
In  the  eastern  sky,  the  rainbow, 
Whispered,  '  What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?  ' 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered:  130 

'  'T  is  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see  there : 
All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 
All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 
When  on  earth  they  fade  and  perish, 
Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us.' 

When  he  heard  the  owls  at  midnight, 
Hooting,  laughing  in  the  forest, 
'  What  is  that  ? '  he  cried  in  terror, 
'  What  is  that,'  he  said,  '  Nokomis  ? ' 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered:  14,. 

4  That  is  but  the  owl  and  owlet, 
Talking  in  their  native  language, 
Talking,  scolding  at  each  other.' 

Then  the  little  Hiawatha 
Learned  of  every  bird  its  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  they  built  their  nests  in  Summer, 
Where  they  hid  themselves  in  Winter, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  '  Hiawatha's  Chickens.'         .50 


i66 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Of  all  beasts  he  learned  the  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  the  beavers  built  their  lodges, 
Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 
How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly, 
Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  '  Hiawatha's  Brothers.' 

Then  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller,  160 

He  the  traveller  and  the  talker, 
He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 
Made  a  bow  for  Hiawatha; 
From  a  branch  of  ash  he  made  it, 
From  an  oak-bough  made  the  arrows, 
Tipped  with  flint,  and  winged  with  feathers, 
And  the  cord  he  made  of  deer-skin. 

Then  he  said  to  Hiawatha: 
'  Go,  my  son,  into  the  forest, 
Where  the  red  deer  herd  together,  170 

Kill  for  us  a  famous  roebuck, 
Kill  for  us  a  deer  with  antlers  !  ' 

Forth  into  the  forest  straightway 
All  alone  walked  Hiawatha 
Proudly,  with  his  bow  and  arrows; 
And  the  birds  sang  round  him,  o'er  him, 
'  Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  !  ' 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
'  Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  ! '  180 

Up  the  oak-tree,  close  beside  him, 
Sprang  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
In  and  out  among  the  branches, 
Coughed  and  chattered  from  the  oak-tree, 
Laughed,  and  said  between  his  laughing, 
'  Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  ! ' 

And  the  rabbit  from  his  pathway 
Leaped  aside,  and  at  a  distance 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Half  in  fear  and  half  in  frolic,  190 

Saying  to  the  little  hunter, 
'  Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  ! ' 

But  he  heeded  not,  nor  heard  them, 
For  his  thoughts  were  with  the  red  deer; 
On  their  tracks  his  eyes  were  fastened, 
Leading  downward  to  the  river, 
To  the  ford  across  the  river, 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walked  he. 

Hidden  in  the  alder-bushes, 
There  he  waited  till  the  deer  came,          200 
Till  he  saw  two  antlers  lifted, 
Saw  two  eyes  look  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  two  nostrils  point  to  windward, 
And  a  deer  came  down  the  pathway, 
Flecked  with  leafy  light  and  shadow. 


And  his  heart  within  him  fluttered, 
Trembled  like  the  leaves  above  him, 
Like  the  birch-leaf  palpitated, 
As  the  deer  came  down  the  pathway. 

Then,  upon  one  knee  uprising,  no 

Hiawatha  aimed  an  arrow; 
Scarce  a  twig  moved  with  his  motion, 
Scarce  a  leaf  was  stirred  or  rustled, 
But  the  wary  roebuck  started, 
Stamped  with  all  his  hoofs  together, 
Listened  with  one  foot  uplifted, 
Leaped  as  if  to  meet  the  arrow; 
Ah  !  the  singing,  fatal  arrow, 
Like  a  wasp  it  buzzed  and  stung  him  ! 

Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  forest,  220 

By  the  ford  across  the  river; 
Beat  his  timid  heart  no  longer, 
But  the  heart  of  Hiawatha 
Throbbed  and  shouted  and  exulted, 
As  he  bore  the  red  deer  homeward, 
And  lagoo  and  Nokomis 
Hailed  his  coming  with  applauses. 

From  the  red  deer's  hide  Nokomis 
Made  a  cloak  for  Hiawatha, 
From  the  red  deer's  flesh  Nokomis  230 

Made  a  banquet  to  his  honor. 
All  the  village  came  and  feasted, 
All  the  guests  praised  Hiawatha, 
Called  him  Strong-Heart,  Soan-ge-taha  ! 
Called  him  Loon-Heart,  Mahn-go-taysee  ! 


IV 
HIAWATHA   AND   MUDJEKEEWIS 

OUT  of  childhood  into  manhood 
Now  had  grown  my  Hiawatha, 
Skilled  in  all  the  craft  of  hunters, 
Learned  in  all  the  lore  of  old  men, 
In  all  youthful  sports  and  pastimes, 
In  all  manly  arts  and  labors. 

Swift  of  foot  was  Hiawatha; 
He  could  shoot  an  arrow  from  him, 
And  run  forward  with  such  fleetness, 
That  the  arrow  fell  behind  him  !  10 

Strong  of  arm  was  Hiawatha; 
He  could  shoot  ten  arrows  upward, 
Shoot  them  with  such  strength  and  swift- 
ness, 

That  the  tenth  had  left  the  bow-string 
Ere  the  first  to  earth  had  fallen  ! 

He  had  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Magic  mittens  made  of  deer-skin ; 
When  upon  his  hands  he  wore  them. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


167 


He  could  smite  the  rocks  asunder, 

He  could  grind  them  into  powder.  » 

He  had  moccasins  enchanted, 

Magic  moccasins  of  deer-skin; 

When  he  bound  them  round  his  ankles, 

When  upon  his  feet  he  tied  them, 

At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured  ! 

Much  he  questioned  old  Nokomis 
Of  his  father  Mudjekeewis; 
Learned  from  her  the  fatal  secret 
Of  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 
Of  the  falsehood  of  his  father;  3< 

And  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 
-     Then  he  said  to  old  Nokomis, 
'  I  will  go  to  Mudjekeewis, 
See  how  fares  it  with  my  father, 
At  the  doorways  of  the  West- Wind, 
At  the  portals  of  the  Sunset  ! ' 

From  his  lodge  went  Hiawatha, 
Dressed  for  travel,  armed  for  hunting; 
Dressed  in  deer-skin  shirt  and  leggings,    4< 
Richly  wrought  with  quills  and  wampum; 
On  his  head  his  eagle-feathers, 
Round  his  waist  his  belt  of  wampum, 
In  his  hand  his  bow  of  ash-wood, 
Strung  with  sinews  of  the  reindeer; 
In  his  quiver  oaken  arrows, 
Tipped  with  jasper,  winged  with  feathers; 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
With  his  moccasins  enchanted. 

Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis,  y 

'  Go  not  forth,  O  Hiawatha  ! 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind, 
To  the  realms  of  Mudjekeewis, 
Lest  he  harm  you  with  his  magic, 
Lest  he  kill  you  with  his  cunning  !  ' 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Heeded  not  her  woman's  warning; 
Forth  he  strode  into  the  forest, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured; 
Lurid  seemed  the  sky  above  him,  & 

Lurid  seemed  the  earth  beneath  him, 
Hot  and  close  the  air  around  him, 
Filled  with  smoke  and  fiery  vapors, 
As  of  burning  woods  and  prairies, 
For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

So  he  journeyed  westward,  westward, 
Left  the  fleetest  deer  behind  him, 
Left  the  antelope  and  bison; 
Crossed  the  rusliing  Esconaba,  7, 

Crossed  the  mighty  Mississippi, 
Passed  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
Passed  the  land  of  Crows  and  Foxes, 


Passed  the  dwellings  of  the  Blackfeet, 
Came  unto  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind, 
Where  upon  the  gusty  summits 
Sat  the  ancient  Mudjekeewis, 
Ruler  of  the  winds  if  heaven. 

Filled  with  awe  was  Hiawatha 
At  the  aspect  of  his  father. 
On  the  air  about  him  wildly 
Tossed  and  streamed  his  cloudy  tresses, 
Gleamed  like  drifting  snow  his  tresses. 
Glared  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Like  the  star  with  fiery  tresses. 

Filled  with  joy  was  Mudjekeewis 
When  he  looked  on  Hiawatha, 
Saw  his  youth  rise  up  before  him 
In  the  face  of  Hiawatha, 
Saw  the  beauty  of  Weuonah 
From  the  grave  rise  up  before  him. 

'  Welcome  ! '  said  he,  '  Hiawatha, 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind  ! 
Long  have  I  been  waiting  for  you  ! 
Youth  is  lovely,  age  is  lonely, 
Youth  is  fiery,  age  is  frosty; 
You  bring  back  the  days  departed, 
You  bring  back  my  youth  of  passion, 
And  the  beautiful  Wenonah  !  ' 

Many  days  they  talked  together, 
Questioned,  listened,  waited,  answered; 
I   Much  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 
j  Boasted  of  his  ancient  prowess, 
Of  his  perilous  adventures, 
His  indomitable  courage, 
His  invulnerable  body. 

Patiently  sat  Hiawatha, 
Listening  to  his  father's  boasting; 
With  a  smile  he  sat  and  listened, 
Uttered  neither  threat  nor  menace, 
Neither  word  nor  look  betrayed  him, 
But  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

Then  he  said,  '  O  Mudjekeewis, 
Is  there  nothing  that  can  harm  you  ? 
Nothing  that  you  are  afraid  of  ?  ' 
And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 
Grand  and  gracious  in  his  boasting, 
Answered,  saying,  '  There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  but  the  black  rock  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  fatal  Wawbeek  ! ' 

And  he  looked  at  Hiawatha 
With  a  wise  look  and  benignant, 
With  a  countenance  paternal, 
Looked  with  pride  upon  the  beauty 
Of  his  tall  and  graceful  figure, 
Saying,  '  O  my  Hiawatha  ! 


1 68 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Is  there  anything  can  harm  you  ? 
Anything  you  are  afraid  of  ?  '  130 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Paused  awhile,  as  if  uncertain, 
Held  his  peace,  as  if  resolving, 
And  then  answered,  '  There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  but  the  bulrush  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  great  Apukwa  ! 

And  as  Mudjekeewis,  rising, 
Stretched    his    hand    to    pluck    the    bul- 
rush, 

Hiawatha  cried  in  terror, 
Cried  in  well-dissembled  terror,  140 

'  Kago  !  kago  !  do  not  touch  it  ! ' 
'  Ah,  kaween  ! '  said  Mudjekeewis, 
'  No  indeed,  I  will  not  touch  it ! ' 

Then  they  talked  of  other  matters; 
First  of  Hiawatha's  brothers, 
First  of  Wabun,  of  the  East- Wind, 
Of  the  South- Wind,  Shawondasee, 
Of  the  North,  Kabibonokka; 
Then  of  Hiawatha's  mother, 
Of  the  beautiful  Wenonah,  150 

Of  her  birth  upon  the  meadow, 
Of  her  death,  as  old  Nokomis 
Had  remembered  and  related. 

And  he  cried,  « O  Mudjekeewis, 
It  was  you  who  killed  Wenonah, 
Took  her  young  life  and  her  beauty, 
Broke  the  Lily  of  the  Prairie, 
Trampled  it  beneath  your  footsteps; 
You  confess  it !  you  confess  it ! ' 
And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis  160 

Tossed  upon  the  wind  his  tresses, 
Bowed  his  hoary  head  in  anguish, 
With  a  silent  nod  assented. 

Then  up  started  Hiawatha, 
And  with  threatening  look  and  gesture 
Laid  his  hand  upon  the  black  rock, 
On  the  fatal  Wawbeek  laid  it, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Rent  the  jutting  crag  asunder, 
Smote  and  crushed  it  into  fragments,       170 
Hurled  them  madly  at  his  father, 
The  remorseful  Mudjekeewis, 
For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

But  the  ruler  of  the  West- Wind 
Blew  the  fragments  backward  from  him. 
With  the  breathing  of  his  nostrils, 
With  the  tempest  of  his  anger, 
Blew  them  back  at  his  assailant; 
Seized  the  bulrush,  the  Apukwa,  180 

Dragged  it  with  its  roots  and  fibres 
From  the  margin  of  the  meadow, 


From  its  ooze  the  giant  bulrush; 
Long  and  loud  laughed  Hiawatha  ! 

Then  began  the  deadly  conflict, 
Hand  to  hand  among  the  mountains; 
From  his  eyry  screamed  the  eagle, 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Sat  upon  the  crags  around  them, 
Wheeling  flapped  his  wings  above  them.    190 

Like  a  tall  tree  in  the  tempest 
Bent  and  lashed  the  giant  bulrush; 
And  in  masses  huge  and  heavy 
Crashing  fell  the  fatal  Wawbeek; 
Till  the  earth  shook  with  the  tumult 
And  confusion  of  the  battle, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  shoutings, 
And  the  thunder  of  the  mountains, 
Starting,  answered,  '  Baim-wawa  ! ' 

Back  retreated  Mudjekeewis,  200 

Rushing  westward  o'er  the  mountains, 
Stumbling  westward  down  the  mountains, 
Three  whole  days  retreated  fighting, 
Still  pursued  by  Hiawatha 
To  the  doorways  of  the  West-Wind, 
To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 
To  the  earth's  remotest  border, 
Where  into  the  empty  spaces 
Sinks  the  sun,  as  a  flamingo 
Drops  into  her  nest  at  nightfall  2 10 

In  the  melancholy  marshes. 

'  Hold  ! '  at  length  cried  Mudjekeewis, 
'  Hold,  my  son,  my  Hiawatha  ! 
T  is  impossible  to  kill  me, 
For  you  cannot  kill  the  immortal. 
I  have  put  you  to  this  trial, 
But  to  know  and  prove  your  courage; 
Now  receive  the  prize  of  valor  ! 

'  Go  back  to  your  home  and  people, 
Live  among  them,  toil  among  them,          220 
Cleanse  the  earth  from  all  that  harms  it, 
Clear  the  fishing-grounds  and  rivers, 
Slay  all  monsters  and  magicians, 
All  the  Wendigoes,  the  giants, 
All  the  serpents,  the  Kenabeeks, 
As  I  slew  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 
Slew  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains. 

'  And  at  last  when  Death  draws  near  you, 
When  the  awful  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  you  in  the  darkness,  230 

I  will  share  my  kingdom  with  you, 
Ruler  shall  you  be  thenceforward 
Of  the  Northwest- Wind,  Keewaydin, 
Of  the  home-wind,  the  Keewaydin.' 

Thus  was  fought  that  famous  battle 
In  the  dreadful  days  of  Shah-shah, 
In  the  days  long  since  departed, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


169 


In  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind. 

Still  the  hunter  sees  its  traces 

Scattered  far  o'er  hill  and  valley;  240 

Sees  the  giant  bulrush  growing 

By  the  ponds  and  water-courses, 

Sees  the  masses  of  the  Wawbeek 

Lying  still  in  every  valley. 

Homeward  now  went  Hiawatha; 
Pleasant  was  the  landscape  round  him, 
Pleasant  was  the  air  above  him, 
For  the  bitterness  of  auger 
Had  departed  wholly  from  him, 
From  his  brain  the  thought  of  vengeance,  250 
From  his  heart  the  burning  fever. 

Only  once  his  pace  he  slackened, 
Only  once  he  paused  or  halted, 
Paused  to  purchase  heads  of  arrows 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Where  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Flash  and  gleam  among  the  oak-trees, 
Laugh  and  leap  into  the  valley.1 

There  the  ancient  Arrow-maker  26o 

Made  his  arrow-heads  of  sandstone, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads  of  flint  and  jasper, 
Smoothed  and  sharpened  at  the  edges, 
Hard  and  polished,  keen  and  costly. 

With  him  dwelt  his  dark-eyed  daughter 
Wayward  as  the  Minnehaha, 
With  her  moods  of  shade  and  sunshine, 
Eyes  that  smiled  and  frowned  alternate, 
Feet  as  rapid  as  the  river,  270 

Tresses  flowing  like  the  water, 
And  as  musical  a  laughter: 
And  he  named  her  from  the  river, 
From  the  water-fall  he  named  her, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water. 

Was  it  then  for  heads  of  arrows, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads  of  flint  and  jasper, 
That  my  Hiawatha  halted 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ?  280 

Was  it  not  to  see  the  maiden, 
See  the  face  of  Laughing  Water 
Peeping  from  behind  the  curtain, 
Hear  the  rustling  of  her  garments 
From  behind  the  waving  curtain, 

1  '  The  scenery  about  Fort  Snelling  is  rich  in  beauty. 
The  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  are  familiar  to  travellers,  and 
to  readers  of  Indian  sketches.  Between  the  fort  and 
these  falls  are  the  "Little  Falls,"  forty  feet  in  height, 
on  a  stream  that  empties  into  the  Mississippi.  The 
Indians  called  them  Mine-hah-hah,  or  "laughing 
waters."  '  —  Mrs.  Eastman's  Dacota fi,  or  Legends  of  the 
Sioux,  Introd.  p.  ii.  (LOKOFELLOW.) 


As  one  sees  the  Minnehaha 
Gleaming,  glancing  through  the  branches, 
As  one  hears  the  Laughing  Water 
From  behind  its  screen  of  branches  ? 

Who  shall  say  what  thoughts  and  visions 
Fill  the  fiery  brains  of  young  men  ?         290 
Who  shall  say  what  dreams  of  beauty 
Filled  the  heart  of  Hiawatha  ? 
All  he  told  to  old  Nokomis, 
When  he  reached  the  lodge  at  sunset, 
Was  the  meeting  with  his  father, 
Was  his  fight  with  Mudjekeewis; 
Not  a  word  he  said  of  arrows, 
Not  a  word  of  Laughing  Water. 


HIAWATHA'S  FASTING  2 

You  shall  heat  how  Hiawatha 
Prayed  and  fasted  in  the  forest, 
Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 
Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 
Not  for  triumphs  in  the  battle, 
And  renown  among  the  warriors, 
But  for  profit  of  the  people, 
For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

First  he  built  a  lodge  for  fasting, 
Built  a  wigwam  in  the  forest,  10 

By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
In  the  blithe  and  pleasant  Spring-time, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  he  built  it, 
And,  with  dreams  and  visions  many, 
Seven  whole  days  and  nights  he  fasted. 

On  the  first  day  of  his  fasting 
Through  the  leafy  woods  he  wandered; 
Saw  the  deer  start  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  the  rabbit  in  his  burrow, 
Heard  the  pheasant,  Bena,  drumming,      20 
Heard  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Rattling  in  his  hoard  of  acorns, 
Saw  the  pigeon,  the  Omeme, 
Building  nests  among  the  pine-trees, 
And  in  flocks  the  wild-goose,  Wawa, 
Flying  to  the  fen-lands  northward, 
Whirring,  wailing  far  above  him. 
'  Master  of  Life  1 '  he  cried,  desponding, 
'  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  ?  ' 

On  the  next  day  of  his  fasting  3c 

By  the  river's  brink  he  wandered, 
Through  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Saw  the  wild  rice,  Mahnomonee, 
Saw  the  blueberry,  Meenahga, 
And  the  strawberry,  Odahmin, 

-  See  Longfellow's  note  on  section  xiii,  p.  188. 


170 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And  the  gooseberry,  Shahbomin, 

And  the  grape-vine,  the  Bemahgut, 

Trailing  o'er  the  alder-branches, 

Filling  all  the  air  with  fragrance  ! 

'  Master  of  Life  ! '  he  cried,  desponding,    40 

'  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  ?  ' 

On  the  third  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  lake  he  sat  and  pondered, 
By  the  still,  transparent  water; 
Saw  the  sturgeon,  Nahma,  leaping, 
Scattering  drops  like  beads  of  wampum, 
Saw  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 
Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
And  the  herring,  Okahahwis,  50 

And  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish  ! 
*  Master  of  Life  !  '  he  cried,  desponding, 
'  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  ? ' 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  fasting 
In  his  lodge  he  lay  exhausted ; 
From  his  couch  of  leaves  and  branches 
Gazing  with  half-open  eyelids, 
Full  of  shadowy  dreams  and  visions, 
On  the  dizzy,  swimming  landscape, 
On  the  gleaming  of  the  water,  60 

On  the  splendor  of  the  sunset. 

And  he  saw  a  youth  approaching, 
Dressed  in  garments  green  and  yellow, 
Coming  through  the  purple  twilight, 
Through  the  splendor  of  the  sunset; 
Plumes  of  green  bent  o'er  his  forehead, 
And  his  hair  was  soft  and  golden. 

Standing  at  the  open  doorway, 
Long  he  looked  at  Hiawatha, 
Looked  with  pity  and  compassion  70 

On  his  wasted  form  and  features, 
And,  in  accents  like  the  sighing 
Of  the  South-Wind  in  the  tree-tops, 
Said  he,  « O  my  Hiawatha  ! 
All  your  prayers  are  heard  in  heaven, 
For  you  pray  not  like  the  others; 
Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 
Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 
Not  for  triumph  iii  the  battle, 
Nor  renown  among  the  warriors,  80 

But  for  profit  of  the  people, 
For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

'  From  the  Master  of  Life  descending, 
I,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin, 
Come  to  warn  you  and  instruct  you, 
How  by  struggle  and  by  labor 
You  shall  gain  what  you  have  prayed  for. 
Rise  up  from  your  bed  of  branches, 
Rise,  O  youth,  and  wrestle  with  me  ! ' 
Faint  with  famine,  Hiawatha  90 


Started  from  his  bed  of  branches, 
From  the  twilight  of  his  wigwam 
Forth  into  the  flush  of  sunset 
Came,  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin; 
At  his  touch  he  felt  new  courage 
Throbbing  in  his  brain  and  bosom, 
Felt  new  life  and  hope  and  vigor 
Run  through  every  nerve  and  fibre. 

So  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset,  100 

And  the  more  they  strove  and  struggled, 
Stronger  still  grew  Hiawatha; 
Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Gave  a  sc-eam  of  pain  and  famine. 

'  'T  is  enough  ! '  then  said  Mondamin, 
Smiling  upon  Hiawatha, 
'  But  to-morrow,  when  the  sun  sets,          /ic 
I  will  come  again  to  try  you.' 
And  he  vanished,  and  was  seen  not; 
Whether  sinking  as  the  rain  sinks, 
Whether  rising  as  the  mists  rise, 
Hiawatha  saw  not,  knew  not, 
Only  saw  that  he  had  vanished, 
Leaving  him  alone  and  fainting, 
With  the  misty  lake  below  him, 
And  the  reeling  stars  above  him. 

On  the  morrow  and  the  next  day,         120 
When  the  sun  through  heaven  descending, 
Like  a  red  and  burning  cinder 
From  the  hearth  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
Fell  into  the  western  waters, 
Came  Mondamin  for  the  trial, 
For  the  strife  with  Hiawatha; 
Came  as  silent  as  the  dew  comes, 
From  the  empty  air  appearing, 
Into  empty  air  returning, 
Taking  shape  when  earth  it  touches,         130 
But  invisible  to  all  men 
In  its  coming  and  its  going. 

Thrice  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Uttered  her  loud  cry  of  famine, 
And  Mondamin  paused  to  listen. 

Tall  and  beautiful  he  stood  there,          +c 
In  his  garments  green  and  yellow; 
To  and  fro  his  plumes  above  him 
Waved  and  nodded  with  his  breathing, 
And  the  sweat  of  the  encounter 
Stood  like  drops  of  dew  upon  him. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


171 


And  he  cried,  <  O  Hiawatha  ! 
Bravely  have  you  wrestled  with  me, 
Thrice  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  me, 
And  the  Master  of  Life,  who  sees  us, 
He  will  give  to  you  the  triumph  ! '  150 

Then  he  smiled,  and  said  :  '  To-morrow 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  conflict, 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  fasting. 
You  will  conquer  and  o'ercome  me; 
Make  a  bed  for  me  to  lie  in, 
Where  the  rain  may  fall  upon  me, 
Where  the  sun  may  come  and  warm  me; 
Strip  these  garments,  green  and  yellow, 
Strip  this  nodding  plumage  from  me, 
Lay  me  in  the  earth,  and  make  it  160 

Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  me. 

'  Let  no  hand  disturb  my  slumber, 
Let  no  weed  nor  worm  molest  me, 
Let  not  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 
Come  to  haunt  me  and  molest  me, 
Only  come  yourself  to  watch  me, 
Till  I  wake,  and  start,  and  quicken, 
Till  I  leap  into  the  sunshine.' 

And  thus  saying,  he  departed; 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha,  170 

But  he  heard  the  Wawonaissa, 
Heard  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Perched  upon  his  lonely  wigwam; 
Heard  the  rushing  Sebowisha, 
Heard  the  rivulet  rippling  near  him, 
Talking  to  the  darksome  forest; 
Heard  the  sighing  of  the  branches, 
As  they  lifted  and  subsided 
At  the  passing  of  the  night-wind, 
Heard  them,  as  one  hears  in  slumber       180 
Far-off  murmurs,  dreamy  whispers: 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha. 

On  the  morrow  came  Nokomis, 
On  the  seventh  day  of  his  fasting, 
Came  with  food  for  Hiawatha, 
Came  imploring  and  bewailing, 
Lest  his  hunger  should  o'ercome  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 

But  he  tasted  not,  and  touched  not, 
Only  said  to  her,  '  Nokomis,  r  90 

Wait  until  the  sun  is  setting, 
Till  the  darkness  falls  around  us, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying  from  the  desolate  marshes, 
Tells  us  that  the  day  is  ended.' 

Homeward  weeping  went  Nokomis, 
Sorrowing  for  her  Hiawatha, 
Fearing  lest  his  strength  should  fail  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 
He  meanwhile  sat  weary  waiting  200 


For  the  coming  of  Mondamin, 
Till  the  shadows,  pointing  eastward, 
Lengthened  over  field  and  forest, 
Till  the  sun  dropped  from  the  heaven, 
Floating  on  the  waters  westward, 
As  a  red  leaf  in  the  Autumn 
Falls  and  floats  upon  the  water, 
Falls  and  sinks  into  its  bosom. 

And  behold  !  the  young  Mondamin, 
With  his  soft  and  shining  tresses,  aw 

With  his  garments  green  and  yellow, 
With  his  long  and  glossy  plumage, 
Stood  and  beckoned  at  the  doorway. 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walking, 
Pale  and  haggard,  but  undaunted, 
From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Came  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin. 

Round  about  him  spun  the  landscape, 
Sky  and  forest  reeled  together, 
And  his  strong  heart  leaped  within  him,  220 
As  the  sturgeon  leaps  and  struggles 
In  a  net  to  break  its  meshes. 
Like  a  ring  of  fire  around  him 
Blazed  and  flared  the  red  horizon, 
And  a  hundred  suns  seemed  looking 
At  the  combat  of  the  wrestlers. 

Suddenly  upon  the  greensward 
All  alone  stood  Hiawatha, 
Panting  with  his  wild  exertion, 
Palpitating  with  the  struggle;  230 

And  before  him  breathless,  lifeless, 
Lay  the  youth,  with  hair  dishevelled, 
Plumage  torn,  and  garments  tattered, 
Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  sunset. 

And  victorious  Hiawatha 
Made  the  grave  as  he  commanded, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin, 
Stripped  his  tattered  plumage  from  him, 
Laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  made  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  him;          240 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  the  melancholy  moorlands, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Gave  a  cry  of  pain  and  anguish  ! 

Homeward  then  went  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis, 
And  the  seven  days  of  his  fasting 
Were  accomplished  and  completed. 
But  the  place  was  not  forgotten 
Where  he  wrestled  with  Mondamin;        250 
Nor  forgotten  nor  neglected 
Was  the  grave  where  lay  Mondamin, 
Sleeping  in  the  rain  and  sunshine, 
Where  his  scattered  plumes  and  garments 
Faded  in  the  rain  and  sunshine. 


172 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Day  by  day  did  Hiawatha 
Go  to  wait  and  watch  beside  it; 
Kept  the  dark  mould  soft  above  it, 
Kept  it  clean  from  weeds  and  insects, 
Drove  away,  with  scoffs  and  shoutings,    260 
Kahgahgee,  the  king  of  ravens. 

Till  at  length  a  small  green  feather 
From  the  earth  shot  slowly  upward, 
Then  another  and  another, 
And  before  the  Summer  ended 
Stood  the  maize  in  all  its  beauty, 
With  its  shining  robes  about  it, 
And  its  long,  soft,  yellow  tresses; 
And  in  rapture  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  '  It  is  Mondamin  !  270 

Yes,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin  I ' 

Then  he  called  to  old  Nokomis 
And  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
Showed  them  where  the  maize  was  grow- 
ing* 

Told  them  of  his  wondrous  vision, 
Of  his  wrestling  and  his  triumph, 
Of  this  new  gift  to  the  nations, 
Which  should  be  their  food  forever. 

And  still  later,  when  the  Autumn 
Changed  the  long,  green  leaves  to  yellow,  280 
And  the  soft  and  juicy  kernels 
Grew  like  wampum  hard  and  yellow, 
Then  the  ripened  ears  he  gathered, 
Stripped    the    withered    husks    from    off 

them, 

As  he  once  had  stripped  the  wrestler, 
Gave  the  first  Feast  of  Mondamin, 
And  made  known  unto  the  people 
This  new  gift  of  the  Great  Spirit. 


VI 


HIAWATHA'S   FRIENDS 

Two  good  friends  had  Hiawatha, 

Singled  out  from  all  the  others, 

Bound  to  him  in  closest  union, 

And  to  whom  he  gave  the  right  hand 

Of  his  heart,  in  joy  and  sorrow; 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 

Straight  between  them  ran  the  pathway, 
Never  grew  the  grass  upon  it; 
Singing  birds,  that  utter  falsehoods,  10 

Story-tellers,  mischief-makers, 
Found  no  eager  ear  to  listen, 
Could  not  breed  ill-will  between  them, 
For  they  kept  each  other's  counsel, 


Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 

Most  beloved  by  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 
He  the  best  of  all  musicians,  a 

He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers. 
Beautiful  and  childlike  was  he, 
Brave  as  man  is,  soft  as  woman, 
Pliant  as  a  wand  of  willow, 
Stately  as  a  deer  with  antlers. 

When  he  sang,  the  village  listened; 
All  the  warriors  gathered  round  him, 
All  the  women  came  to  hear  him; 
Now  he  stirred  their  souls  to  passion, 
Now  he  melted  them  to  pity.  3 

From  the  hollow  reeds  he  fashioned 
Flutes  so  musical  and  mellow, 
That  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha, 
Ceased  to  murmur  in  the  woodland, 
That  the  wood-birds  ceased  from  singing, 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Ceased  his  chatter  in  the  oak-tree, 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Sat  upright  to  look  and  listen. 

Yes,  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha,  4 

Pausing,  said,  '  O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  my  waves  to  flow  in  music, 
Softly  as  your  words  in  singing  ! ' 

Yes,  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
Envious,  said,  '  O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  tones  as  wild  and  wayward, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  frenzy  ! ' 

Yes,  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Joyous,  said,  '  O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  tones  as  sweet  and  tender,         5 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  gladness  ! ' 

And  the  whippoorwill,  Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing,  said,  '  O  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  tones  as  melancholy, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  sadness  !  ' 

All  the  many  sounds  of  nature 
Borrowed  sweetness  from  his  singing; 
All  the  hearts  of  men  were  softened 
By  the  pathos  of  his  music; 
For  he  sang  of  peace  and  freedom,  6 

Sang  of  beauty,  love,  and  longing; 
Sang  of  death,  and  life  undying 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
In  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

Very  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 
He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers ; 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


'73 


For  his  gentleness  he  loved  him,  70 

And  the  magic  of  his  singing. 

Dear,  too,  unto  Hiawatha 
Was  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
He  the  strongest  of  all  mortals, 
He  the  mightiest  among  many ; 
For  his  very  strength  he  loved  him, 
For  his  strength  allied  to  goodness. 

Idle  in  his  youth  was  Kwasind, 
Very  listless,  dull,  and  dreamy, 
Never  played  with  other  children,  80 

Never  fished  and  never  hunted, 
Not  like  other  children  was  he; 
But  they  saw  that  much  he  fasted, 
Much  his  Manito  entreated, 
Much  besought  his  Guardian  Spirit. 

'  Lazy  Kwasind  ! '  said  his  mother, 
•  In  my  work  you  never  help  me  ! 
In  the  Summer  you  are  roaming 
Idly  in  the  fields  and  forests; 
In  the  Winter  you  are  cowering  90 

O'er  the  firebrands  in  the  wigwam  ! 
In  the  coldest  days  of  Winter 
I  must  break  the  ice  for  fishing; 
With  mv  nets  you  never  help  me  ! 
At  the  door  my  nets  are  hanging, 
Dripping,  freezing  with  the  water; 
Go  and  wring  them,  Yenadizze  ! 
Go  and  dry  them  in  the  sunshine  !  ' 

Slowly,  from  the  ashes,  Kwasind 
Rose,  but  made  no  angry  answer;  too 

From  the  lodge  went  forth  in  silence, 
Took  the  nets,  that  hung  together, 
Dripping,  freezing  at  the  doorway; 
Like  a  wisp  of  straw  he  wrung  them, 
Like  a  wisp  of  straw  he  broke  them, 
Could  not.  wring  them  without  breaking, 
Such  the  strength  was  in  his  fingers. 

'  Lazy  Kwasind  ! '  said  his  father, 
'  In  the  hunt  you  never  help  me ; 
Every  bow  you  touch  is  broken,  no 

Snapped  asunder  every  arrow; 
Yet  come  with  me  to  the  forest, 
You     shall     bring     the     hunting      home- 
ward.' 

Down  a  narrow  pass  they  wandered, 
Where  a  brooklet  led  them  onward, 
Where  the  trail  of  deer  and  bison 
Marked  the  soft  mud  on  the  margin, 
Till  they  found  all  further  passage 
Shut  against  them,  barred  securely 
By  the  trunks  of  trees  uprooted,  120 

Lying  lengthwise,  lying  crosswise, 
And  forbidding  further  passage. 

'We  must  go  back,'  said  the  old  man, 


'  O'er  these  logs  we  oannot  clamber; 

Not  a  woodchuck  could  get  through  them, 

Not  a  squirrel  clamber  o'er  them  ! ' 

And  straightway  his  pipe  he  lighted, 

And  sat  down  to  smoke  and  ponder. 

But  before  his  pipe  was  finished, 

Lo  !  the  path  was  cleared  before  him;     130 

All  the  trunks  had  Kwasind  lifted, 

To  the  right  hand,  to  the  left  hand, 

Shot  the  pine-trees  swift  as  arrows, 

Hurled  the  cedars  light  as  lances. 

'  Lazy  Kwasind  ! '  said  the  young  men, 
As  they  sported  in  the  meadow: 
'  Why  stand  idly  looking  at  us, 
Leaning  on  the  rock  behind  you  ? 
Come  and  wrestle  with  the  others, 
Let  us  pitch  the  quoit  together  ! '  i4« 

Lazy  Kwasind  made  no  answer, 
To  their  challenge  made  no  answer, 
Only  rose,  and  slowly  turning, 
Seized  the  huge  rock  in  his  fingers, 
Tore  it  from  its  deep  foundation, 
Poised  it  in  the  air  a  moment, 
Pitched  it  sheer  into  the  river, 
Sheer  into  the  swift  Pauwating, 
Where  it  still  is  seen  in  Summer. 

Once  as  down  that  foaming  river,         150 
Down  the  rapids  of  Pauwating, 
Kwasind  sailed  with  his  companions, 
In  the  stream  he  saw  a  beaver, 
I  Saw  Ahmeek,  the  King  of  Beavers, 
Struggling  with  the  rushing  currents, 
Rising,  sinking  in  the  water. 

Without  speaking,  without  pausing, 
Kwasind  leaped  into  the  river, 
Plunged  beneath  the  bubbling  surface, 
Through  the  whirlpools  chased  the  beaver, 
Followed  him  among  the  islands,  161 

I  Stayed  so  long  beneath  the  water, 
That  his  terrified  companions 
Cried,  '  Alas  !  good-by  to  Kwasind  ! 
We  shall  never  more  see  Kwasind  ! ' 
But  he  reappeared  triumphant, 
And  upon  his  shining  shoulders 
Brought     the     beaver,     dead     and     drip- 
ping, 
Brought  the  King  of  all  the  Beavers. 

And  these  two,  as  I  have  told  you,        i7c 
Were  the  friends  of  Hiawatha, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 
Long  they  lived  in  peace  together. 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper 


>74 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


VII 
HIAWATHA'S  SAILING 

«  GIVE  me  of  your  bark,  O  Birch-tree  ! 
Of  your  yellow  bark,  O  Birch-tree  ! 
Growing  by  the  rushing  river, 
Tall  and  state'y  in  the  valley  ! 
I  a  light  canoe  will  build  me, 
Build  a  swift  Cheemaun  for  sailing, 
That  shall  float  upon  the  river, 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily  ! 

'  Lay  aside  your  cloak,  O  Birch-tree  !    10 
Lay  aside  your  white-skin  wrapper, 
For  the  Summer-time  is  coming, 
And  the  sun  is  warm  in  heaven, 
And  you  need  no  white-skin  wrapper  !  ' 

Thus  aloud  cried  Hiawatha 
In  the  solitary  forest, 
By  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
When  the  birds  were  singing  gayly, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  were  singing, 
And  the  sun,  from  sleep  awaking,  20 

Started  up  and  said,  « Behold  me  ! 
Gheezis,  the  great  Sun,  behold  me  ! ' 

And  the  tree  with  all  its  branches 
Rustled  in  the  breeze  of  morning, 
Saying,  with  a  sigh  of  patience, 
'  Take  my  cloak,  O  Hiawatha  ! ' 

With  his  knife  the  tree  he  girdled 
Just  beneath  its  lowest  branches, 
Just  above  the  roots,  he  cut  it, 
Till  the  sap  came  oozing  outward;  30 

Down  the  trunk,  from  top  to  bottom, 
Sheer  he  cleft  the  bark  asunder, 
With  a  wooden  wedge  he  raised  it, 
Stripped  it  from  the  trunk  unbroken. 

1  Give  me  of  your  boughs,  O  Cedar  ! 
Of  your  strong  and  pliant  branches,     • 
My  canoe  to  make  more  steady, 
Make  more  strong  and  firm  beneath  me  ! ' 

Through  the  summit  of  the  Cedar 
Went  a  sound,  a  cry  of  horror,  4o 

Went  a  murmur  of  resistance ; 
But  it  whispered,  bending  downward, 
'  Take  my  boughs,  O  Hiawatha  ! ' 

Down  he  hewed  the  boughs  of  cedar, 
Shaped  them  straightway  to  a  frame-work, 
Like  two  bows  he  formed  and  shaped  them, 
Like  two  bended  bows  together. 

'  Give  me  of  your  roots,  O  Tamarack  ! 
Of  your  fibrous  roots,  O  Larch-tree  ! 
My  canoe  to  bind  together,  50 

So  to  bind  the  ends  together 


That  the  water  may  not  enter, 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  ! ' 

And  the  Larch,  with  all  its  fibres, 
Shivered  in  the  air  of  morning, 
Touched  his  forehead  with  its  tassels, 
Said,  with  one  long  sigh  of  sorrow, 
'  Take  them  all,  O  Hiawatha  ! ' 

From  the  earth  he  tore  the  fibres, 
Tore  the  tough  roots  of  the  Larch-tree,    60 
Closely  sewed  the  bark  together, 
Bound  it  closely  to  the  frame-work. 

'  Give  me  of  your  balm,  O  Fir-tree  ! 
Of  your  balsam  and  your  resin, 
So  to  close  the  seams  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  ! ' 

And  the  Fir-tree,  tall  and  sombre, 
Sobbed  through  all  its  robes  of  darkness, 
Rattled  like  a  shore  with  pebbles,  70 

Answered  wailing,  answered  weeping, 
«  Take  my  balm,  O  Hiawatha  ! ' 

And  he  took  the  tears  of  balsam, 
Took  the  resin  of  the  Fir-tree, 
Smeared  therewith  each  seam  and  fissure, 
Made  each  crevice  safe  from  water. 

'  Give  me  of  your  quills,  O  Hedgehog  ! 
All  your  quills,  O  Kagh,  the  Hedgehog  ! 
I  will  make  a  necklace  of  them, 
Make  a  girdle  for  my  beauty,  So 

And  two  stars  to  deck  her  bosom  ! ' 

From  a  hollow  tree  the  Hedgehog 
With  his  sleepy  eyes  looked  at  him, 
Shot  his  shining  quills,  like  arrows, 
Saying  with  a  drowsy  murmur, 
Through  the  tangle  of  his  whiskers, 
'  Take  my  quills,  O  Hiawatha  ! ' 

From  the  ground  the  quills  he  gathered, 
All  the  little  shining  arrows, 
Stained  them  red  and  blue  and  yellow,     90 
With  the  juice  of  roots  and  berries; 
Into  his  canoe  he  wrought  them, 
Round  its  waist  a  shining  girdle, 
Round  its  bows  a  gleaming  necklace, 
On  its  breast  two  stars  resplendent. 

Thus  the  Birch  Canoe  was  builded 
In  the  valley,  by  the  river, 
In  the  bosom  of  the  forest; 
And  the  forest's  life  was  in  it, 
All  its  mystery  and  its  magic,  joo 

All  the  lightness  of  the  birch-tree, 
All  the  toughness  of  the  cedar, 
All  the  larch's  supple  sinews; 
And  it  floated  on  the  river 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Aiitumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


175 


Paddles  none  had  Hiawatha, 
Paddles  none  he  had  or  needed, 
For  his  thoughts  as  paddles  served  him, 
And  his  wishes  served  to  guide  him;        no 
Swift  or  slow  at  will  he  glided, 
Veered  to  right  or  left  at  pleasure. 

Then  he  called  aloud  to  Kwasind, 
To  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Saying,  '  Help  me  clear  this  river 
Of  its  sunken  logs  and  sand-bars.' 

Straight  into  the  river  Kwasind 
Plunged  as  if  he  were  an  otter, 
Dived  as  if  he  were  a  beaver, 
Stood  up  to  his  waist  in  water,  120 

To  his  arm-pits  in  the  river, 
Swam  and  shouted  in  the  river, 
Tugged  at  sunken  logs  and  branches, 
With  his  hands  he  scooped  the  sand-bars, 
With  his  feet  the  ooze  and  tangle. 

And  thus  sailed  my  Hiawatha 
Down  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
Sailed  through  all  its  bends  and  windings, 
Sailed  through  all  its  deeps  and  shallows, 
While  his  friend,  the   strong  man,  Kwa- 
sind, 130 
Swam  the  deeps,  the  shallows  waded. 

Up  and  down  the  river  went  they, 
In  and  out  among  its  islands, 
Cleared  its  bed  of  root  and  sand-bar, 
Dragged  the  dead  trees  from  its  channel, 
Made  its  passage  safe  and  certain, 
Made  a  pathway  for  the  people, 
From  its  springs  among  the  mountains, 
To  the  waters  of  Pauwating, 
To  the  bay  of  Taquamenaw.  I4o 


VIII 

HIAWATHA'S  FISHING 

FORTH  upon  the  Gitehe  Gumee, 
On  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar, 
Of  the  twisted  bark  of  cedar, 
Forth  to  catch  the  sturgeon  Nahma, 
Mishe-Nahma,  King  of  Fishes, 
In  his  birch  canoe  exulting 
All  alone  went  Hiawatha. 

Through  the  clear,  transparent  water 
i    He  could  see  the  fishes  swimming 
!    Far  down  in  the  depths  below  him; 
I    See  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 
I    Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 
1    See  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish, 


Like  a  spider  on  the  bottom, 
On  the  white  and  sandy  bottom. 

At  the  stern  sat  Hiawatha, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar; 
In  his  plumes  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  hemlock  branches; 
On  the  bows,  with  tail  erected, 
Sat  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo; 
In  his  fur  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  prairie  grasses. 

On  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Lay  the  monster  Mishe-Nahma, 
Lay  the  sturgeon,  King  of  Fishes ; 
Through  his  gills  he  breathed  the  water, 
With  his  fins  he  fanned  and  winnowed, 
With  his  tail  he  swept  the  sand-floor. 

There  he  lay  in  all  his  armor; 
On  each  side  a  shield  to  guard  him, 
Plates  of  bone  upon  his  forehead, 
Down  his  sides  and  back  and  shoulders 
Plates  of  bone  with  spines  projecting! 
Painted  was  he  with  his  war-paints, 
Stripes  of  yellow,  red,  and  azure, 
Spots  of  brown  and  spots 'of  sable; 
And  he  lay  there  on  the  bottom, 
Fanning  with  his  fins  of  purple, 
As  above  him  Hiawatha 
In  his  birch  canoe  came  sailing, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar. 

'  Take  my  bait,'  cried  Hiawatha, 
Down  into  the  depths  beneath  him, 
'  Take  my  bait,  O  Sturgeon,  Nahma! 
Come  up  from  below  the  water, 
Let  us  see  which  is  the  stronger! ' 
And  he  dropped  his  line  of  cedar 
Through  the  clear,  transparent  water, 
Waited  vainly  for  an  answer, 
Long  sat  waiting  for  an  answer, 
And  repeating  loud  and  louder, 
« Take  my  bait,  O  King  of  Fishes! ' 

Quiet  lay  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Fanning  slowly  in  the  water, 
Looking  up  at  Hiawatha, 
Listening  to  his  call  and  clamor, 
His  unnecessary  tumult, 
Till  he  wearied  of  the  shouting; 
And  he  said  to  the  Kenozha, 
To  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
4  Take  the  bait  of  this  rude  fellow, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha! ' 

In  his  fingers  Hiawatha 
Felt  the  loose  line  jerk  and  tighten; 
As  he  drew  it  in,  it  tugged  so 
That  the  birch  canoe  stood  endwise, 
Like  a  birch  log  in 


I76 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


With  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo,  ?0 

Perched  and  frisking  on  the  summit. 

Full  of  scorn  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  saw  the  fish  rise  upward, 
Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer  to  him, 
And  he  shouted  through  the  water, 
'Esa!  esa!  shame  upon  you! 
You  are  but  the  pike,  Kenozha, 
You  are  not  the  fish  I  wanted, 
You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes! '  80 

Reeling  downward  to  the  bottom 
Sank  the  pike  in  great  confusion, 
And  the  mighty  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Said  to  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
To  the  bream,  with  scales  of  crimson, 
« Take  the  bait  of  this  great  boaster, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha! ' 

Slowly  upward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Rose  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
Seized  the  line  of  Hiawatha,  9o 

Swung  with  all  his  weight  upon  it, 
Made  a  whirlpool  in  the  water, 
Whirled  the  birch  canoe  in  circles, 
Round  and  round  in  gurgling  eddies, 
Till  the  circles  in  the  water 
Reached  the  far-off  sandy  beaches, 
Till  the  water-flags  and  rushes 
Nodded  on  the  distant  margins. 

But  when  Hiawatha  saw  him 
Slowly  rising  through  the  water,  100 

Lifting  up  Ms  disk  refulgent, 
Loud  he  shouted  in  derision, 
'Esa!  esa!  shame  upon  you! 
You  are  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
You  are  not  the  fish  I  wanted, 
You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  ! ' 

Slowly  downward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Sank  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Heard  the  shout  of  Hiawatha,  no 

Heard  his  challenge  of  defiance, 
The  unnecessary  tumult, 
Ringing  far  across  the  water. 

From  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Up  he  rose  with  angry  gesture, 
Quivering  in  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Clashing  all  his  plates  of  armor, 
Gleaming  bright  with  all  his  war-paint; 
In  his  wrath  he  darted  upward, 
Flashing  leaped  into  the  sunshine,  120 

Opened  his  great  jaws,  and  swallowed 
Both  canoe  and  Hiawatha. 

Down  into  that  darksome  cavern 
Plunged  the  headlong  Hiawatha, 


As  a  log  on  some  black  river 
Shoots  and  plunges  down  the  rapids, 
Found  himself  in  utter  darkness, 
Groped  about  in  helpless  wonder, 
Till  he  felt  a  great  heart  beating, 
Throbbing  in  that  utter  darkness. 

And  he  smote  it  in  his  anger, 
With  his  fist,  the  heart  of  Nahma, 
Felt  the  mighty  King  of  Fishes 
Shudder  through  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Heard  the  water  gurgle  round  him 
As  he  leaped  and  staggered  through  it, 
Sick  at  heart,  and  faint  and  weary. 

Crosswise  then  did  Hiawatha 
Drag  his  birch-canoe  for  safety, 
Lest  from  out  the  jaws  of  Nahma, 
In  the  turmoil  and  confusion, 
Forth  he  might  be  hurled  and  perish. 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Frisked  and  chattered  very  gayly, 
Toiled  and  tugged  with  Hiawatha 
Till  the  labor  was  completed. 

Then  said  Hiawatha  to  him, 
'  O  my  little  friend,  the  squirrel, 
Bravely  have  you  toiled  to  help  me  ; 
Take  the  thanks  of  Hiawatha, 
And  the  name  which  now  he  gives  you; 
For  hereafter  and  forever 
Boys  shall  call  you  Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air  the  boys  shall  call  you  !  ' 

And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Gasped  and  quivered  in  the  water, 
Then  was  still,  and  drifted  landward 
Till  he  grated  on  the  pebbles, 
Till  the  listening  Hiawatha 
Heard  him  grate  upon  the  margin, 
Felt  him  strand  upon  the  pebbles, 
Knew  that  Nahma,  King  of  Fishes, 
Lay  there  dead  upon  the  margin. 

Then  he  heard  a  clang  and  flapping, 
As  of  many  wings  assembling, 
Heard  a  screaming  and  confusion, 
As  of  birds  of  prey  contending, 
Saw  a  gleam  of  1'ght  above  him, 
Shining  through  the  ribs  of  Nahma, 
Saw  the  glittering  eyes  of  sea-gulls, 
Of  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls,  peering, 
Gazing  at  him  through  the  opening, 
Heard  them  saying  to  each  other, 
'  'T  is  our  brother,  Hiawatha  !  ' 

And  he  shouted  from  below  them, 
Cried  exulting  from  the  caverns: 
•  O  ye  sea-gulls  !     O  my  brothers  ! 
I  have  slain  the  sturgeon,  Nahma; 
Make  the  rifts  a  little  larger, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'77 


With  your  claws  the  openings  widen,       180 

Set  me  free  from  this  dark  prison, 

And  henceforward  and  forever 

Men  shall  speak  of  your  achievements, 

Calling  you  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls, 

Yes,  Kayoshk,  the  Noble  Scratchers  ! ' 

And  the  wild  and  clamorous  sea-gulls 
Toiled  with  beak  and  claws  together, 
Made  the  rifts  and  openings  wider 
In  the  mighty  ribs  of  Nahma, 
And  from  peril  and  from  prison,  190 

From  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 
From  the  peril  of  the  water, 
They  released  my  Hiawatha. 

He  was  standing  near  his  wigwam. 
On  the  margin  of  the  water, 
And  he  called  to  old  Nokomis, 
Called  and  beckoned  to  Nokomis, 
Pointed  to  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Lying  lifeless  on  the  pebbles, 
With  the  sea-gulls  feeding  on  him.  200 

1 1  have  slain  the  Mishe-Nahma, 
Slam  the  King  of  Fishes  ! '  said  he ; 
'  Look  !  the  sea-gulls  feed  upon  him, 
Yes,  my  friends  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls; 
Drive  them  not  away,  Nokomis, 
They  have  saved  me  from  great  peril 
In  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 
Wait  until  their  meal  is  ended, 
Till  their  craws  are  full  with  feasting, 
Till  they  homeward  fly,  at  sunset,  210 

To  their  nests  among  the  marshes; 
Then  bring  all  your  pots  and  kettles, 
And  make  oil  for  us  in  Winter.' 

And  she  waited  till  the  sun  set, 
Till  the  pallid  moon,  the  Night-sun, 
Rose  above  the  tranquil  water, 
Till  Kayoshk,  the  sated  sea-gulls, 
From  their  banquet  rose  with  clamor, 
And  across  the  fiery  sunset 
Winged  their  way  to  far-off  islands,         220 
To  their  nests  among  the  rushes. 

To  his  sleep  went  Hiawatha, 
And  Nokomis  to  her  labor, 
Toiling  patient  in  the  moonlight, 
Till  the  sun  and  moon  changed  places, 
Till  the  sky  was  red  with  sunrise, 
And  Kayoshk,  the  hungry  sea-gulls, 
Came  back  from  the  reedy  islands, 
Clamorous  for  their  morning  banquet. 

Three  whole  days  and  nights  alternate   230 
I    Old  Nokomis  and  the  sea-gulls 
:    Stripped  the  oily  flesh  of  Nahma, 
Till   the  waves  washed   through  the   rib- 
bones, 


Till  the  sea-gulls  came  no  longer, 
And  upon  the  sands  lay  nothing 
But  the  skeleton  of  Nahma. 


IX 

HIAWATHA  AND   THE   PEARL-FEATHER 

ON  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
Of  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
O'er  the  water  pointing  westward, 
To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset. 

Fiercely  the  red  sun  descending 
Burned  his  way  along  the  heavens, 
Set  the  sky  on  fire  behind  him, 
As  war-parties,  when  retreating,  i< 

Burn  the  prairies  on  their  war-trail; 
And  the  moon,  the  Night-sun,  eastward, 
Suddenly  starting  from  his  ambush, 
Followed  fast  those  bloody  footprints, 
Followed  in  that  fiery  war-trail, 
With  its  glare  upon  his  features. 

And  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
Spake  these  words  to  Hiawatha: 
'  Yonder  dwells  the  great  Pearl-Feather,   M 
Megissogwon,  the  Magician, 
Manito  of  Wealth  and  Wampum, 
Guarded  by  his  fiery  serpents, 
Guarded  by  the  black  pitch-water. 
You  can  see  his  fiery  serpents, 
The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Coiling,  playing  in  the  water; 
You  can  see  the  black  pitch-water 
Stretching  far  away  beyond  them, 
To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset !  y 

'  He  it  was  who  slew  my  father, 
By  his  wicked  wiles  and  cunning, 
When  he  from  the  moon  descended, 
When  he  came  on  earth  to  seek  me. 
He,  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 
Sends  the  fever  from  the  marshes, 
Sends  the  pestilential  vapors, 
Sends  the  poisonous  exhalations, 
Sends  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sends  disease  and  death  among  us  !  40 

'  Take  your  bow,  O  Hiawatha, 
Take  your  arrows,  jasper-headed, 
Take  your  war-club,  Puggawaugun, 
And  your  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
And  your  birch-canoe  for  sailing, 
And  the  oil  of  Mishe-Nahma, 
So  to  smear  its  sides,  that  swiftly 


i78 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


You  may  pass  the  black  pitch-water; 
Slay  this  merciless  magician, 
Save  the  people  from  the  fever  50 

That  he  breathes  across  the  fen-lands, 
And  avenge  my  father's  murder  ! ' 

.Straightway  then  my  Hiawatha 
Armed  himself  with  all  his  war-gear, 
Launched  his  birch-canoe  for  sailing; 
With  his  palm  its  sides  he  patted, 
Said  with  glee,  '  Cheemaun,  my  darling, 
O  my  Birch-canoe  !  leap  forward, 
Where  you  see  the  fiery  serpents, 
Where  you  see  the  black  pitch- water  ! '     60 

Forward  leaped  Cheemaun  exulting, 
And  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Sang  his  war-song  wild  and  woful, 
And  above  him  the  war-eagle, 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Master  of  all  fowls  with  feathers, 
Screamed  and  hurtled  through  the  heavens. 

Soon  he  reached  the  fiery  serpents, 
The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Lying  huge  upon  the  water,  7o 

Sparkling,  rippling  in  the  water, 
Lying  coiled  across  the  passage, 
With  their  blazing  crests  uplifted, 
Breathing  fiery  fogs  and  vapors, 
So  that  none  could  pass  beyond  them. 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  and  spake  in  this  wise, 
'  Let  me  pass  my  way,  Kenabeek, 
Let  me  go  upon  my  journey  ! ' 
And  they  answered,  hissing  fiercely,          go 
With  their  fiery  breath  made  answer: 
'  Back,  go  back  !  O  Shaugodaya  ! 
Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart ! ' 

Then  the  angry  Hiawatha 
Raised  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
Seized  his  arrows,  jasper-headed, 
Shot  them  fast  among  the  serpents; 
Every  twanging  of  the  bow-string 
Was  a  war-cry  and  a  death-cry, 
Every  whizzing  of  an  arrow  90 

Was  a  death-song  of  Kenabeek. 

Weltering  in  the  bloody  water, 
Dead  lay  all  the  fiery  serpents, 
And  among  them  Hiawatha 
Harmless  sailed,  and  cried  exulting: 
'  Onward,  O  Cheemaun,  my  darling  ! 
Onward  to  the  black  pitch-water  ! ' 

Then  he  took  the  oil  of  Nahma, 
And  the  bows  and  sides  anointed, 
Smeared  them  well  with  oil,  that  swiftly 
He  might  pass  the  black  pitch-water.       101 

All  night  long  he  sailed  upon  it, 


Sailed  upon  that  sluggish  water, 
Covered  with  its  mould  of  ages, 
Black  with  rotting  water-rushes, 
Rank  with  flags  and  leaves  of  lilies, 
Stagnant,  lifeless,  dreary,  dismal, 
Lighted  by  the  shimmering  moonlight, 
And  by  will-o'-the-wisps  illumined, 
Fires  by  ghosts  of  dead  men  kindled,       nc 
In  their  weary  night-encampments. 

All  the  air  was  white  with  moonlight, 
All  the  water  black  with  shadow, 
And  around  him  the  Suggema, 
The  mosquito,  sang  his  war-song, 
And  the  fire-flies,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved  their  torches  to  mislead  him; 
And  the  bull-frog,  the  Dahinda, 
Thrust  his  head  into  the  moonlight, 
Fixed  his  yellow  eyes  upon  him,  m 

Sobbed  and  sank  beneath  the  surface; 
And  anon  a  thousand  whistles, 
Answered  over  all  the  fen-lands, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Far  off  on  the  reedy  margin, 
Heralded  the  hero's  coming. 

Westward  thus  fared  Hiawatha, 
Toward  the  realm  of  Megissogwon, 
Toward  the  land  of  the  Pearl-Feather, 
Till  the  level  moon  stared  at  him,  isc 

In  his  face  stared  pale  and  haggard, 
Till  the  sun  was  hot  behind  him, 
Till  it  burned  upon  his  shoulders, 
And  before  him  on  the  upland 
He  could  see  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Of  the  Manito  of  Wampum, 
Of  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  once  more  Cheemaun  he  patted, 
To  his  birch-canoe  said,  '  Onward  ! ' 
And  it  stirred  in  all  its  fibres,  i4c 

And  with  one  great  bound  of  triumph 
Leaped  across  the  water-lilies, 
Leaped  through  tangled  flags  and  rushes, 
And  upon  the  beach  beyond  them 
Dry-shod  landed  Hiawatha. 

Straight  he  took  his  bow  of  ash-tree, 
On  the  sand  one  end  he  rested, 
With  his  knee  he  pressed  the  middle, 
Stretched  the  faithful  bow-string  tighter, 
Took  an  arrow,  jasper-headed,  150 

Shot  it  at  the  Shining  Wigwam, 
Sent  it  singing  as  a  herald, 
As  a  bearer  of  his  message, 
Of  his  challenge  loud  and  lofty: 
'  Come  forth  from  your  lodge,  Pearl-Fea- 
ther ! 
Hiawatha  waits  your  coming  ! ' 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


179 


Straightway  from  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Came  the  mighty  Megissogwon, 
Tall  of  stature,  broad  of  shoulder, 
Dark  and  terrible  in  aspect,  160 

Clad  from  head  to  foot  in  wampum, 
Armed  with  all  his  warlike  weapons, 
Faulted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Streaked   with    crimson,    blue,    and    yel- 
low, 

Crested  with  great  eagle-feathers, 
Streaming  upward,  streaming  outward. 

'  Well  I  know  you,  Hiawatha  ! ' 
Cried  he  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
In  a  tone  of  loud  derision. 
'  Hasten  back,  O  Shaugodaya  !  170 

Hasten  back  among  the  women, 
Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart ! 
I  will  slay  you  as  you  stand  there, 
As  of  old  1  slew  her  father  ! ' 

But  my  Hiawatha  answered. 
Nothing  daunted,  fearing  nothing: 
'  Big  words  do  not  smite  like  war-clubs, 
Boastful  breath  is  not  a  bow-string, 
Taunts  are  not  so  sharp  as  arrows, 
Deeds  are  better  things  than  words  are,  180 
Actions  mightier  than  boastings  ! ' 

Then  began  the  greatest  battle 
That  the  sun  had  ever  looked  on, 
That  the  war-birds  ever  witnessed. 
All  a  summer's  day  it  lasted, 
From  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset; 
For  the  shafts  of  Hiawatha 
Harmless  hit  the  shirt  of  wampum, 
Harmless  fell  the  blows  he  dealt  it 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwuu,  190 

Harmless  fell  the  heavy  war-club; 
It  could  dash  the  rocks  asunder, 
But  it  could  not  break  the  meshes 
Of  that  magic  shirt  of  wampum. 

Till  at  sunset  Hiawatha, 
Leaning  on  his  bow  of  ash-tree, 
Wounded,  weary,  and  desponding, 
With  his  mighty  war-club  broken, 
With  his  mittens  torn  and  tattered, 
And  three  useless  arrows  only,  200 

Paused  to  rest  beneath  a  pine-tree, 
From  whose  branches  trailed  the  mosses, 
And  whose  trunk  was  coated  over 
With  the  Dead-man's  Moccasin-leather, 
With  the  fungus  white  and  yellow. 

Suddenly  from  the  boughs  above  him 
Sang  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker: 
'  Aim  your  arrows,  Hiawatha, 
At  the  head  of  Megissogwon, 
Strike  the  tuft  of  hair  upon  it,  210 


At  their  roots  the  long  black  tresses; 
There  alone  can  he  be  wounded  ! ' 

Winged  with  feathers,  tipped  with  jasper, 
Swift  flew  Hiawatha's  arrow, 
Just  as  Megissogwon,  stooping, 
Raised  a  heavy  stone  to  throw  it. 
Full  upon  the  crown  it  struck  him, 
At  the  roots  of  his  long  tresses, 
And  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 
Plunging  like  a  wounded  bison,  22C 

Yes,  like  Pezhekee,  the  bison, 
When  the  snow  is  on  the  prairie. 

Swifter  flew  the  second  arrow, 
In  the  pathway  of  the  other, 
Piercing  deeper  than  the  other, 
Wounding  sorer  than  the  other; 
And  the  knees  of  Megissogwon 
Shook  like  windy  reeds  beneath  him, 
Bent  and  trembled  like  the  rushes. 

But  the  third  and  latest  arrow  330 

Swiftest  flew,  and  wounded  sorest, 
And  the  mighty  Megissogwon 
Saw  the  fiery  eyes  of  Pauguk, 
Saw  the  eyes  of  Death  glare  at  him, 
Heard  his  voice  call  in  the  darkness; 
At  the  feet  of  Hiawatha 
Lifeless  lay  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Lay  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  the  grateful  Hiawatha 
Called  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker,          a«i 
From  his  perch  among  the  branches 
Of  the  melancholy  pine-tree, 
And,  in  honor  of  his  service, 
Stained  with  blood  the  tuft  of  feathers 
On  the  little  head  of  Mama; 
Even  to  this  day  he  wears  it, 
Wears  the  tuft  of  crimson  feathers, 
As  a  symbol  of  his  service. 

Then  he  stripped  the  shirt  of  wampum 
From  the  back  of  Megissogwon,  2sc 

As  a  trophy  of  the  battle, 
As  a  signal  of  his  conquest. 
On  the  shore  he  left  the  body, 
Half  on  land  and  half  in  water, 
In  the  sand  his  feet  were  buried, 
And  his  face  was  in  the  water. 
And  above  him,  wheeled  and  clamored 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Sailing  round  in  narrower  circles, 
Hovering  nearer,  nearer,  nearer.  260 

From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Bore  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 
All  his  wealth  of  skins  and  wampum, 
Furs  of  bison  and  of  beaver, 
Furs  of  sable  and  of  ermine, 


i8o 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Wampum  belts  and  strings  and  pouches, 
Quivers  wrought  with  beads  of  wampum, 
Filled  with  arrows,  silver-headed. 

Homeward  then  he  sailed  exulting,       269 
Homeward  through  the  black  pitch-water, 
Homeward  through  the  weltering  serpents 
With  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 
With  a  shout  and  song  of  .triumph. 

On  the  shore  stood  old  Nokomis, 
On  the  shore  stood  Chibiabos, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Waiting  for  the  hero's  coming, 
Listening  to  his  songs  of  triumph. 
And  the  people  of  the  village 
Welcomed  him  with  songs  and  dances,     280 
Made  a  joyous  feast,  and  shouted: 
'  Honor  be  to  Hiawatha  ! 
He  has  slain  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Slain  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 
Him,  who  sent  the  fiery  fever, 
Sent  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sent  disease  and  death  among  us  ! ' 

Ever  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  memory  of  Mama  ! 
And  in  token  of  his  friendship,  29o 

As  a  mark  of  his  remembrance, 
He  adorned  and  decked  his  pipe-stem 
With  the  crimson  tuft  of  feathers, 
With  the  blood-red  crest  of  Mama. 
But  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 
All  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 
He  divided  with  his  people, 
Shared  it  equally  among  them. 


HIAWATHA'S  WOOING 

'  As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 

So  unto  the  man  is  woman; 

Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 

Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows; 

Useless  each  without  the  other  !  ' 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 
Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 
Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

'  Wed  a  maiden  of  your  people,' 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis; 
'  Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 
For  a  stranger,  whom  we  know  not ! 


Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearth-stone 

Is  a  neighbor's  homely  daughter, 

Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 

Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers  !  '  .  20 

Thus  dissuading  spake  JX'okomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this:  <  Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 
But  I  like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight ! ' 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis: 
'  Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden, 
Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman, 
Hands  unskilful,  feet  unwilling;  30 

Bring  a  wife  with  nimble  fingers, 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands  ! ' 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha: 
'  In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands,  40 

Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people  ! ' 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis: 
'  Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 
Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 
Often  is  there  war  between  us, 
There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten, 
Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  open  ! ' 

Laughing  answered  Hiawatha:  50 

'  For  that  reason,  if  no  other, 
Would  I  wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  forever  !  * 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
To  the  land  of  handsome  women; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests,  60 

Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasins  of  magic, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured; 
Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 
And  his  heart  outran  his  footsteps; 
And  he  journeyed  without  resting, 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 
'  Pleasant  is  the  sovmd  ! '  he  murmured,    ?« 
'  Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me  ! ' 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


181 


On  the  outskirts  of  the  forests, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding, 
But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha; 
To  his  bow  he  whispered,  '  Fail  not  ! ' 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  '  Swerve  not ! ' 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand, 
To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck; 
Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder,  80 

And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 
At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 
Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 
Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes;  9o 

Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were, 
And  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow; 
Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 
How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows,  100 

Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were  ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons  ! 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter, 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows,  no 

Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha  ? 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a  foot- 
step, 120 
Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches, 
And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodland's 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 


Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 
Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow, 
Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway, 
Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him,  130 

'  Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome  ! ' 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
'  You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha  ! ' 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made  of  deer-skins  dressed  and  whitened.  140 
With  the  Gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 
Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them,    150 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered, 
But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened, 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis,  160 

Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

'  After  many  years  of  warfare, 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways       i7c 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs.' 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 
'  That  this  peace  may  last  forever, 
And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  Women  ! ' 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker  »8c 


182 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered, 
Smoked  a  little  while  in  silence, 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly, 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  made  answer  very  gravely: 
'  Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes ; 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha  ! ' 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely  as  she  stood  there, 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant,  190 

As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 
'  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband  ! ' 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing  ! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water;         200 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 
'  Fare  thee  well,  O  Minnehaha  ! ' 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor,  •  210 

Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway, 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying: 
'  Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us  ! 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  a-nd  lean  upon  them, 
Comes  a  youth  with  flaunting  feathers, 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden,  220 

And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger  !  ' 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 
Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 
Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 
Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though  his  pace  he  checked  and  slackened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water.  230 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden; 
Light  he  thought  her  as  a  feather, 
As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear; 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 


Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches, 

Made  at  night  a  lodge  of  branches, 

And  a  bed  with  boughs  of  hemlock, 

And  a  fire  before  the  doorway 

With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree.         240 

All  the  travelling  winds  went  with  them, 
O'er  the  meadows,  through  the  forest; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slumber; 
From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers; 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Scampered  from  the  path  before  them, 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow,  2So 

Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward  ! 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart's-ease ; 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
'  Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 
Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you  ! ' 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
'  Happy  are  you,  Laughing  Water,  260 

Having  such  a  noble  husband  !  ' 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them,  '  O  my  children, 
Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 
Rule  by  love,  O  Hiawatha  ! ' 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them, 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispered  to  them,  '  O  my  children,        27o 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble; 
Half  is  mine,  although  I  follow; 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water  ! ' 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward ; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight, 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water,  28o 

Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 


XI 

HIAWATHA'S  WEDDING-FEAST 

You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How  the  handsome  Yenadizze 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


183 


Danced  at  Hiawatha's  wedding; 

How  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 

He  the  sweetest  of  musicians, 

Sang  his  songs  of  love  and  longing; 

How  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 

He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 

Told  his  tales  of  strange  adventure, 

That  the  feast  might  be  more  joyous,        10 

That  the  time  might  pass  more  gayly, 

And  the  guests  be  more  contented. 

Sumptuous  was  the  feast  Nokornis 
Made  at  Hiawatha's  wedding; 
All  the  bowls  were  made  of  bass-wood, 
White  and  polished  very  smoothly, 
All  the  spoons  of  horn  of  bison, 
Black  and  polished  very  smoothly. 

She  had  sent  through  all  the  village 
Messengers  with  wands  of  willow,  20 

As  a  sign  of  invitation, 
As  a  token  of  the  feasting; 
And  the  wedding  guests  assembled, 
Clad  in  all  their  richest  raiment, 
Robes  of  fur  and  belts  of  wampum, 
Splendid  with  their  paint  and  plumage, 
Beautiful  with  beads  and  tassels. 

First  they  ate  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
And  the  pike,  the  Maskeuozha, 
Caught  and  cooked  by  old  Nokornis;          30 
Then  on  pemican  they  feasted, 
Pemican  and  buffalo  marrow, 
Haunch  of  deer  and  hump  of  bison, 
Yellow  cakes  of  the  Mondamin, 
And  the  wild  rice  of  the  river. 

But  the  gracious  Hiawatha, 
A.nd  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
And  the  careful  old  Nokomis, 
Tasted  not  the  food  before  them, 
Only  waited  on  the  others,  4o 

Only  served  their  guests  in  silence. 

And  when  all  the  guests  had  finished, 
Old  Nokornis,  brisk  and  busy, 
From  an  ample  pouch  of  otter, 
Filled  the  red-stone  pipes  for  smoking 
With  tobacco  from  the  South-land, 
Mixed  with  bark  of  the  red  willow, 
And  with  herbs  and  leaves  of  fragrance. 

Then  she  said,  '  O  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance  for  us  your  merry  dances,  50 

Dance  the  Beggar's  Dance  to  please  us, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  ! ' 

Then  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He  the  idle  Yenadizze, 
He  the  merry  mischief-maker, 


Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm-Fool, 
Rose  among  the  guests  assembled. 

Skilled  was  he  in  sports  and  pastimes,    60 
In  the  merry  dance  of  snow-shoes, 
In  the  play  of  quoits  and  ball-play  ; 
Skilled  was  he  in  games  of  hazard, 
In  all  games  of  skill  and  hazard, 
Pugasaing,  the  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Kuntassoo,  the  Game  of  Plum-stones. 
Though    the    warriors    called   him    Faint- 
Heart, 

Called  him  coward,  Shaugodaya, 
Idler,  gambler,  Yenadizze, 
Little  heeded  he  their  jesting,  70 

Little  cared  he  for  their  insults, 
For  the  women  and  the  maidens 
Loved  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He  was  dressed  in  shirt  of  doeskin, 
White  and  soft,  and  fringed  with  ermine, 
All  inwrought  with  beads  of  wampum  ; 
He  was  dressed  in  deer-skin  leggings, 
Fringed  with  hedgehog  quills  and  ermine, 
And  in  moccasins  of  buck-skin,  79 

Thick  with  quills  and  beads  embroidered. 
On  his  head  were  plumes  of  swan's  down, 
On  his  heels  were  tails  of  foxes, 
In  one  hand  a  fan  of  feathers, 
And  a  pipe  was  in  the  other. 

Barred  with  streaks  of  red  and  yellow, 
Streaks  of  blue  and  bright  vermilion, 
Shone  the  face  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
From  his  forehead  fell  his  tresses, 
Smooth,  and  parted  like  a  woman's, 
Shining  bright  with  oil,  and  plaited,  90 

Hung  with  braids  of  scented  grasses, 
As  among  the  guests  assembled, 
To  the  sound  of  flutes  and  singing, 
To  the  sound  of  drums  and  voices, 
Rose  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And  began  his  mystic  dances. 

First  he  danced  a  solemn  measure, 
Very  slow  in  step  and  gesture, 
In  and  out  among  the  pine-trees, 
Through  the  shadows  and  the  sunshine,    100 
Treading  softly  like  a  panther. 
Then  more  swiftly  and  still  swifter, 
Whirling,  spinning  round  in  circles, 
Leaping  o'er  the  guests  assembled, 
Eddying  round  and  round  the  wigwam, 
Till  the  leaves  went  whirling  with  him, 
Till  the  dust  and  wind  together 
Swept  in  eddies  round  about  him. 

Then  along  the  sandy  margin 
Of  the  lake,  the  Big-Sea-Water,  no 

On  he  sped  with  frenzied  gestures, 


i84 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Stamped  upon  the  sand,  and  tossed  it 
Wildly  in  the  air  around  him; 
Till  the  wind  became  a  whirlwind, 
Till  the  sand  was  blown  and  sifted 
Like  great  snowdrifts  o'er  the  landscape, 
Heaping  all  the  shores  with  Sand  Dunes, 
Sand  Hills  of  the  Nagow  Wudjoo  !  1 

Thus  the  merry  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced    bis    Beggar's    Dance    to    please 
them,  120 

And,  returning,  sat  down  laughing 
There  among  the  guests  assembled, 
Sat  and  fanned  himself  serenely 
With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers. 

Then  they  said  to  Chibiabos, 
To  the  friend  of  Hiawatha, 
To  the  sweetest  of  all  singers, 
To  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
'  Sing  to  us,  O  Chibiabos  ! 
Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing,  130 

That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  ! ' 

And  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  in  accents  sweet  and  tender, 
Sang  in  tones  of  deep  emotion, 
Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing; 
Looking  still  at  Hiawatha, 
Looking  at  fair  Laughing  Water, 
Sang  he  softly,  sang  in  this  wise :  140 

'  Onaway  !    Awake,  beloved  ! 
Thou  the  wild-flower  of  the  forest ! 
Thou  the  wild-bird  of  the  prairie  ! 
Thou  with  eyes  so  soft  and  fawn-like  ! 

'  If  thou  only  lookest  at  me, 
I  am  happy,  I  am  happy, 
As  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 
When  they  feel  the  dew  upon  them  ! 

'  Sweet  thy  breath  is  as  the  fragrance 
Of  the  wild-flowers  in  the  morning,         150 
As  their  fragrance  is  at  evening, 
In  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling. 

'  Does  not  all  the  blood  within  me 
Leap  to  meet  thee,  leap  to  meet  thee, 
As  the  springs  to  meet  the  sunshine, 
In  the  Moon  when  nights  are  brightest  ? 

'  Onaway  !  my  heart  sings  to  thee, 
Sings  with  joy  when  thou  art  near  me, 
As  the  sighing,  singing  branches 
In  the  pleasant  Moon  of  Strawberries  !    160 

'  When  thou  art  not  pleased,  beloved, 

1  A  description  of  the  Grand  Sable,  or  great  sand- 
dunes  of  Lake  Superior,  is  given  in  Foster  and  Whit- 
ney's Report  on  tlie  Geology  of  the  Lake,  Superior  Land 
District,  part  ii,  p.  131.  (LONGFELLOW.) 


Then  my  heart  is  sad  and  darkened, 

As  the  shining  river  darkens  ' 

When  the  clouds  drop  shadows  on  it  ! 

'  When  thou  smilest,  my  beloved, 
Then  my  troubled  heart  is  brightened, 
As  in  sunshine  gleam  the  ripples 
That  the  cold  wind  makes  in  rivers. 

'  Smiles  the  earth,  and  smile  the  waters, 
Smile  the  cloudless  skies  above  us,  170 

But  I  lose  the  way  of  smiling 
When  thou  art  no  longer  near  me  ! 

'  I  myself,  myself  !  behold  me  ! 
Blood  of  my  beating  heart,  behold  me  ! 
Oh  awake,  awake,  beloved  ! 
Ouaway  !  awake,  beloved  ! ' 2 

Thus  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  his  song  of  love  and  longing; 
And  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller,  180 

He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 
Jealous  of  the  sweet  musician, 
Jealous  of  the  applause  they  gave  him, 
Saw  in  all  the  eyes  around  him, 
Saw  in  all  their  looks  and  gestures, 
That  the  wedding  guests  assembled 
Longed  to  hear  his  pleasant  stories, 
His  immeasurable  falsehoods. 

Very  boastful  was  lagoo; 
Never  heard  he  an  adventure  ig« 

But  himself  had  met  a  greater; 
Never  any  deed  of  daring 
But  himself  had  done  a  bolder; 
Never  any  marvellous  story 
But  himself  could  tell  a  stranger. 

Would  you  listen  to  his  boasting, 
Would  you  only  give  him  credence, 
No  one  ever  shot  an  arrow 
Half  so  far  and  high  as  he  had ; 
Ever  caught  so  many  fishes,  i» 

Ever  killed  so  many  reindeer, 
Ever  trapped  so  many  beaver  ! 

None  could  run  so  fast  as  he  could, 
None  could  dive  so  deep  as  he  could, 
None  could  swim  so  far  as  he  could, 
None  had  made  so  many  journeys, 
None  had  seen  so  many  wonders, 
As  this  wonderful  lagoo, 
As  this  marvellous  story-teller  ! 

Thus  his  name  became  a  by-word         2.0 
And  a  jest  among  the  people; 
And  whene'er  a  boastful  hunter 
Praised  his  own  address  too  highly, 
Or  a  warrior,  home  returning, 

*  The  original  of  this  song  may  be  found  in  Littell't 
Living  Age,  vol.  xxxv,  p.  45.     (LONGFELLOW.) 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


185 


Talked  too  much  of  his  achievements, 
All  his  hearers  cried  '  lagoo  ! 
Here  's  lagoo  come  among  us  ! ' 

He  it  was  who  carved  the  cradle 
Of  the  little  Hiawatha, 
Carved  its  framework  out  of  linden,         220 
Bound  it  strong  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 
He  it  was  who  taught  him  later 
How  to  make  his  bows  and  arrows, 
How  to  make  the  bows  of  ash-tree, 
And  the  arrows  of  the  oak-tree. 
So  among  the  guests  assembled 
At  my  Hiawatha's  wedding 
Sat  lagoo,  old  and  ugly, 
Sat  the  marvellous  story-teller. 

And  they  said,  '  O  good  lagoo,  230 

Tell  us  now  a  tale  of  wonder, 
Tell  us  of  some  strange  adventure, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  ! ' 

And  lagoo  answered  straightway, 
'  You  shall  hear  a  tale  of  wonder, 
You  shall  hear  the  strange  adventures 
Of  Osseo,  the  Magician, 
From  the  Evening  Star  descended.'          140 


XII 
THE   SON   OF   THE   EVENING   STAR 

CAN  it  be  the  sun  descending 
O'er  the  level  plain  of  water? 
Or  the  Red  Swan  floating,  flying, 
Wounded  hy  the  magic  arrow, 
Staining  all  the  waves  with  crimson, 
With  the  crimson  of  its  life-blood, 
Filling  all  the  air  with  splendor, 
With  the  splendor  of  its  plumage  ? 

Yes;  it  is  the  sun  descending, 
Sinking  down  into  the  water; 
All  the  sky  is  stained  with  purple, 
All  the  water  flushed  with  crimson  ! 
No;  it  is  the  Red  Swan  floating, 
Diving  down  beneath  the  water; 
To  the  sky  its  wings  are  lifted, 
With  its  blood  the  waves  are  reddened  ! 

Over  it  the  Star  of  Evening 
Melts  and  trembles  through  the  purple, 
Hangs  suspended  in  the  twilight. 
No;  it  is  a  bead  of  wampum 
On  the  robes  of  the  Great  Spirit 
As  he  passes  through  the  twilight, 
Walks  in  silence  through  the  heavens. 


This  with  joy  beheld  lagoo 
And  he  said  in  haste :  '  Behold  it ! 
See  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening  ! 
You  shall  hear  a  tale  of  wonder, 
Hear  the  story  of  Osseo, 
Son  of  the  Evening  Star,  Osseo  ! 

'  Once,  in  days  no  more  remembered,    30 
Ages  nearer  the  beginning, 
When  the  heavens  were  closer  to  us, 
And  the  Gods  were  more  familiar, 
In  the  North-land  lived  a  hunter, 
With  ten  young  and  comely  daughters, 
Tall  and  lithe  as  wands  of  willow; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
She  the  wilful  and  the  wayward, 
She  the  silent,  dreamy  maiden, 
Was  the  fairest  of  the  sisters.  49 

'  All  these  women  married  warriors, 
Married  brave  and  haughty  husbands; 
Only  Oweeuee,  the  youngest, 
Laughed  and  flouted  all  her  lovers, 
All  her  young  and  handsome  suitors, 
And  then  married  old  Osseo, 
Old  Osseo,  poor  and  ugly, 
Broken  with  age  and  weak  with  coughing, 
Always  coughing  like  a  squirrel. 

'  Ah,  but  beautiful  within  him  50 

Was  the  spirit  of  Osseo, 
From  the  Evening  Star  descended, 
Star  of  Evening,  Star  of  Woman, 
Star  of  tenderness  and  passion  ! 
All  its  fire  was  in  his  bosom, 
All  its  beauty  in  his  spirit, 
All  its  mystery  in  his  being, 
All  its  splendor  in  his  language  ! 

'  And  her  lovers,  the  rejected, 
Handsome  men  with  belts  of  wampum,     60 
Handsome  men  with  paint  and  feathers, 
Pointed  at  her  in  derision, 
Followed  her  with  jest  and  laughter. 
But  she  said  :  "  I  care  not  for  you, 
Care  not  for  your  belts  of  wampum; 
Care  not  for  your  paint  and  feathers, 
Care  not  for  your  jests  and  laughter; 
I  am  happy  with  Osseo  !  " 

'  Once  to  some  great  feast  invited, 
Through  the  damp  and  dusk  of  evening,  70 
Walked  together  the  ten  sisters, 
Walked  together  with  their  husbands; 
Slowly  followed  old  Osseo, 
With  fair  Oweenee  beside  him ; 
All  the  others  chatted  gayly, 
These  two  only  walked  in  silence. 

*  At  the  western  sky  Osseo 
Gazed  intent,  as  if  imploring, 


i86 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Often  stopped  and  gazed  imploring 

At  the  trembling  Star  of  Evening,  80 

At  the  tender  Star  of  Woman; 

And  they  heard  him  murmur  softly, 

"A  h,  showain  nemeshin,  Nosa  ! 

Pity,  pity  me,  my  father  !  " 

"  Listen  !  "  said  the  eldest  sister, 

"  He  is  praying  to  his  father  ! 

What  a  pity  that  the  old  man 

Does  not  stumble  in  the  pathway, 

Does  not  break  his  neck  by  falling  !  " 

And  they  laughed  till  all  the  forest  9o 

Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

'On  their  pathway  through  the   wood- 
lands 

Lay  an  oak,  by  storms  uprooted, 
Lay  the  great  trunk  of  an  oak-tree, 
Buried  half  in  leaves  and  mosses, 
Mouldering,  crumbling,  huge  and  hollow. 
And  Osseo,  when  he  saw  it, 
Gave  a  shout,  a  cry  of  anguish, 
Leaped  into  its  yawning  cavern, 
At  one  end  went  in  an  old  man,.  100 

Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly; 
From  the  other  came  a  young  man, 
Tall  and  straight  and  strong  and  handsome. 

'  Thus  Osseo  was  transfigured, 
Thus  restored  to  youth  and  beauty; 
But,  alas  for  good  Osseo, 
And  for  Oweenee,  the  faithful ! 
Strangely,  too,  was  she  transfigured. 
Changed  into  a  weak  old  woman, 
With  a  staff  she  tottered  onward,  no 

Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly  ! 
And  the  sisters  and  their  husbands 
Laughed  until  the  echoing  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

'  But  Osseo  turned  not  from  her, 
Walked  with  slower  step  beside  her, 
Took  her  hand,  as  brown  and  withered 
As  an  oak-leaf  is  in  Winter, 
Called  her  sweetheart,  Nenemoosha, 
Soothed  her  with  soft  words  of  kindness,   120 
Till  they  reached  the  lodge  of  feasting, 
Till  they  sat  down  in  the  wigwam, 
Sacred  to  the  Star  of  Evening, 
To  the  tender  Star  of  Woman. 

'  Wrapt  in  visions,  lost  in  dreaming, 
At  the  banquet  sat  Osseo; 
All  were  merry,  all  were  happy, 
All  were  joyous  but  Osseo. 
Neither  food  nor  drink  he  tasted, 
Neither  did  he  speak  nor  listen,  130 

But  as  one  bewildered  sat  he, 
Looking  dreamily  and  sadly, 


First  at  Oweenee,  then  upward 
At  the  gleaming  sky  above  them. 

'  Then  a  voice  was  heard,  a  whisper, 
Coming  from  the  starry  distance, 
Coming  from  the  empty  vastness, 
Low,  and  musical,  and  tender  ; 
And  the  voice  said:  "  O  Osseo  ! 
O  my  son,  my  best  beloved  !  140 

Broken  are  the  spells  that  bound  you, 
All  the  charms  of  the  magicians, 
All  the  magic  powers  of  evil  ; 
Come  to  me;  ascend,  Osseo  ! 

'  "  Taste  the  food  that  stands  before  you: 
It  is  blessed  and  enchanted, 
It  has  magic  virtues  in  it, 
It  will  change  you  to  a  spirit. 
All  your  bowls  and  all  your  kettles 
Shall  be  wood  and  clay  no  longer;  150 

But  the  bowls  be  changed  to  wampum, 
And  the  kettles  shall  be  silver; 
They  shall  shine  like  shells  of  scarlet, 
Like  the  fire  shall  gleam  and  glimmer. 

' "  And  the  women  shall  no  longer 
Bear  the  dreary  doom  of  labor, 
But  be  changed  to  birds,  and  glisten 
With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight, 
Painted  with  the  dusky  splendors 
Of  the  skies  and  clouds  of  evening  !  "      160 

'  WThat  Osseo  heard  as  whispers, 
What  as  words  he  comprehended, 
Was  but  music  to  the  others, 
Music  as  of  birds  afar  off, 
Of  the  whippoorwill  afar  off, 
Of  the  lonely  Wawonaissa 
Singing  in  the  darksome  forest. 

4  Then  the  lodge  began  to  tremble, 
Straight  began  to  shake  and  tremble, 
And  they  felt  it  rising,  rising,  170 

Slowly  through  the  air  ascending, 
From  the  darkness  of  the  tree-tops 
Forth  into  the  dewy  starlight, 
Till  it  passed  the  topmost  branches: 
And  behold  !  the  wooden  dishes 
All  were  changed  to  shells  of  scarlet ! 
And  behold  !  the  earthen  kettles 
All  were  changed  to  bowls  of  silver ! 
And  the  roof-poles  of  the  wigwam 
Were  as  glittering  rods  of  silver,  i& 

And  the  roof  of  bark  upon  them 
As  the  shining  shards  of  beetles. 

'  Then  Osseo  gazed  around  him, 
And  he  saw  the  nine  fair  sisters, 
All  the  sisters  and  their  husbands, 
Changed  to  birds  of  various  plumage. 
Some  were  jays  and  some  were  magpies, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


187 


Others  thrushes,  others  blackbirds; 
And  they  hopped,  and  sang,  and  twittered, 
Perked  and  fluttered  all  their  feathers,    190 
Strutted  in  their  shining  plumage, 
And  their  tails  like  fans  unfolded. 

'  Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
Was  not  changed,  but  sat  in  silence, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly, 
Looking  sadly  at  the  others; 
Till  Osseo,  gazing  upward, 
Gave  another  cry  of  anguish, 
Such  a  cry  as  he  had  uttered 
By  the  oak-tree  in  the  forest.  200 

'  Then  returned  her  youth  and  beauty, 
And  her  soiled  and  tattered  garments 
Were  transformed  to  robes  of  ermine, 
And  her  staff  became  a  feather, 
Yes,  a  shining  silver  feather  ! 

'  And  again  the  wigwam  trembled, 
Swayed  and  rushed  through  airy  currents, 
Through  transparent  cloud  and  vapor, 
And  amid  celestial  splendors 
On  the  Evening  Star  alighted,  210 

As  a  snow-flake  falls  on  snow-flake, 
As  a  leaf  drops  on  a  river, 
As  the  thistle-down  on  water. 

'  Forth  with  cheerful  words  of  welcome 
Came  the  father  of  Osseo, 
He  with  radiant  locks  of  silver, 
He  with  eyes  serene  and  tender. 
And  he  said  :  "  My  son,  Osseo, 
Hang  the  cage  of  birds  you  bring  there, 
Hang  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver,  220 

And  the  birds  with  glistening  feathers, 
At  the  doorway  of  my  wigwam." 

'  At  the  door  he  hung  the  bird-cage, 
And  they  entered  in  and  gladly 
Listened  to  Osseo's  father, 
Ruler  of  the  Star  of  Evening, 
As  he  said  :  "  O  my  Osseo  ! 
I  have  had  compassion  on  you, 
Given  you  back  your  youth  and  beauty, 
Into  birds  of  various  plumage  230 

Changed  your  sisters  and  their  husbands; 
Changed  them  thus  because  they  mocked 

you 

In  the  figure  of  the  old  man, 
In  that  aspect  sad  and  wrinkled, 
Could  not  see  your  heart  of  passion, 
Could  not  see  your  youth  immortal; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 
Saw  your  naked  heart  and  loved  you. 

'  "  In  the  lodge  that  glimmers  yonder. 
In  the  little  star  that  twinkles     '  240 

Through  the  vapors,  on  the  left  hand, 


Lives  the  envious  Evil  Spirit, 

The  Wabeno,  the  magician, 

Who  transformed  you  to  an  old  man. 

Take  heed  lest  his  beams  fall  on  you, 

For  the  rays  he  darts  around  him 

Are  the  power  of  his  enchantment, 

Are  the  arrows  that  he  uses." 

'  Many  years,  in  peace  and  quiet, 
On  the  peaceful  Star  of  Evening  250 

Dwelt  Osseo  with  his  father; 
Many  years,  in  song  and  flutter, 
At  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 
Hung  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 
And  fair  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 
Bore  a  son  unto  Osseo, 
With  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 
WTith  the  courage  of  his  father. 

'  And  the  boy  grew  up  and  prospered, 
And  Osseo,  to  delight  him,  i6c 

Made  him  little  bows  and  arrows, 
Opened  the  great  cage  of  silver, 
And  let  loose  his  aunts  and  uncles, 
All  those  birds  with  glossy  feathers, 
For  his  little  son  to  shoot  at. 

'  Round   and   round   they   wheeled    and 

darted, 

Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  music, 
With  their  songs  of  joy  and  freedom; 
Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  splendor, 
With  the  fluttering  of  their  plumage;      270 
Till  the  boy,  the  little  hunter, 
Bent  his  bow  and  shot  an  arrow, 
Shot  a  swift  and  fatal  arrow, 
And  a  bird,  with  shining  feathers, 
At  his  feet  fell  wounded  sorely. 

'  But,  O  wondrous  transformation  ! 
'  T  was  no  bird  he  saw  before  him, 
'T  was  a  beautiful  young  woman, 
With  the  arrow  in  her  bosom  ! 

'  When  her  blood  fell  on  the  planet,     280 
On  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening, 
Broken  was  the  spell  of  magic,        i. 
Powerless  was  the  strange  enchantment, 
And  the  youth,  the  fearless  bowman, 
Suddenly  felt  himself  descending, 
Held  by  unseen  hands,  but  sinking 
Downward  through  the  empty  spaces, 
Downward  through  the  clouds  and  vapors, 
Till  he  rested  on  an  island, 
On  an  island,  green  and  grassy,  2gc 

Yonder  in  the  Big-Sea-Water. 

'  After  him  he  saw  descending 
All  the  birds  with  shining  feathers, 
Fluttering,  falling,  wafted  downward, 
Like  the  painted  leaves  of  Autumn; 


1 88 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


And  the  lodge  with  poles  of  silver, 
With  its  roof  like  wings  of  beetles, 
Like  the  shining  shards  of  beetles, 
By  the  winds  of  heaven  uplifted, 
Slowly  sank  upon  the  island,  300 

Bringing  back  the  good  Osseo, 
Bringing  Oweeuee,  the  faithful. 

'  Then  the  birds,  again  transfigured, 
Reassumed  the  shape  of  mortals, 
Took  their  shape,  but  not  their  stature; 
They  remained  as  Little  People, 
Like  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies, 
And  on  pleasant  nights  of  summer, 
When  the  Evening  Star  was  shining, 
Hand  in  hand  they  danced  together          310 
On  the  island's  craggy  headlands, 
On  the  sand-beach  low  and  level. 

'  Still  their  glittering  lodge  is  seen  there, 
On  the  tranquil  Summer  evenings, 
And  upon  the  shore  the  fisher 
Sometimes  hears  their  happy  voices, 
Sees  them  dancing  in  the  starlight ! ' 

When  the  story  was  completed, 
When  the  wondrous  tale  was  ended, 
Looking  round  upon  his  listeners,  320 

Solemnly  lagoo  added: 
'  There    are    great    men,   I    have    known 

such, 

Whom  their  people  understand  not, 
Whom  they  even  make  a  jest  of, 
Scoff  and  jeer  at  in  derision. 
From  the  story  of  Osseo 
Let  us  learn  the  fate  of  jesters  ! ' 

All  the  wedding  guests  delighted 
Listened  to  the  marvellous  story, 
Listened  laughing  and  applauding,  330 

And  they  whispered  to  each  other: 
'  Does  he  mean  himself,  I  wonder  ? 
And  are  we  the  aunts  and  uncles  ?  * 

Then  again  sang  Chibiabos, 
Sang  a  song  of  love  and  longing, 
In  those  accents  sweet  and  tender, 
In  those  tones  of  pensive  sadness, 
Sang  a  maiden's  lamentation 
For  her  lover,  her  Algonquin. 

'  When  I  think  of  my  beloved,  340 

Ah  me  !  think  of  my  beloved, 
When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

'  Ah  me  !  when  I  parted  from  him, 
Round  my  neck  he  hung  the  wampum, 
As  a  pledge,  the  snow-white  wampum, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

'  I  will  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 
Ah  me  '.  to  your  native  country; 


Let  me  go  with  you,  he  whispered,  350 

O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

'  Far  away,  away,  I  answered, 
Very  far  away,  I  answered, 
Ah  me  !  is  my  native  country, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

'  When  I  looked  back  to  behold  him, 
Where  we  parted,  to  behold  him, 
After  me  he  still  was  gazing, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

'  By  the  tree  he  still  was  standing,        360 
By  the  fallen  tree  was  standing, 
That  had  dropped  into  the  water, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

'  When  I  think  of  my  beloved, 
Ah  me  !  think  of  my  beloved, 
When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 
O  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! ' 1 

Such  was  Hiawatha's  Wedding, 
Such  the  dance  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Such  the  story  of  lagoo,  370 

Such  the  songs  of  Chibiabos; 
Thus  the  wedding  banquet  ended, 
And  the  wedding  guests  departed, 
Leaving  Hiawatha  happy 
With  the  night  and  Minuehaha. 


XIII 

BLESSING  THE  CORNFIELDS2 

SING,  O  Song  of  Hiawatha, 

Of  the  happy  days  that  followed, 

1  The  original  of  this  song  may  be  found  in  Onedta, 
p.  15.    (LONOFEIXOW.) 

2  The  Indians  hold  the  maize,  or  Indian  corn,  in 
great  veneration.     '  They  esteem  it  so  important  and 
divine  a  grain,'  says  Schoolcraft,  '  that  their  story-tel- 
lers invented  various  tales,  in  which  this  idea  is  sym- 
bolized under  the  form  of  a  special  gift  from  the  Great 
Spirit.     The  Odjibwa-Algonquins,  who  call  it  Mon-da- 
min,  that  is,  this  Spirit's  grain  or  berry,  have  a  pretty 
story  of  the  kind,  in  which  the  stalk  in  full  tassel  is 
represented  as  descending  from  the  sky,  under  the 
guise  of  a  handsome  youth,  in  answer  to  the  prayers  of 
a  young  man  at  his  fast  of  virility,  or  coming  to  man- 
hood. 

'  It  is  well  known  that  corn-planting  and  corn-gather- 
ing, at  least  among  all  the  still  uncolonized  tribes,  are 
left  entirely  to  the  females  and  children,  and  a  few 
superannuated  old  men.  It  is  not  generally  known, 
perhaps,  that  this  labor  is  not  compulsory,  and  that  it 
is  assumed  by  the  females  as  a  just  equivalent,  in  their 
•»iew,  for  the  onerous  and  continuous  labor  of  the  other 
sex,  in  providing  meats,  and  skins  for  clothing,  by  the 
chase,  and  in  defending  their  villages  against  their 
enemies,  and  keeping  intruders  off  their  territories. 
A  good  Indian  housewife  deems  this  a  part  of  her  pre- 
rogative, and  prides  herself  to  have  a  store  of  corn  to 
exercise  her  hospitality,  or  duly  honor  her  husband's 
hospitality  in  the  entertainment  of  the  lodge  guests.' 
—  One6ta,  p.  82.  (LONOFKMOW.) 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


189 


In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful  I 
Sing  the  mysteries  of  Moudamin, 
Sing  the  Blessing  of  the  Cornfields  ! 

Buried  was  the  bloody  hatchet, 
Buried  was  the  dreadful  war-club, 
Buried  were  all  warlike  weapons, 
And  the  war-cry  was  forgotten.  10 

There  was  peace  among  the  nations; 
Unmolested  roved  the  hunters, 
Built  the  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 
Caught  the  fish  in  lake  and  river, 
Shot  the  deer  and  trapped  the  beaver; 
Unmolested  worked  the  women, 
Made  their  sugar  from  the  maple, 
Gathered  wild  rice  in  the  meadows, 
Dressed  the  skins  of  deer  and  beaver. 

All  around  the  happy  village  20 

Stood  the  maize-fields,  green  and  shining, 
Waved  the  green  plumes  of  Mondamin, 
Waved  his  soft  and  sunny  tresses, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  plenty. 
'T  was  the  women  who  in  spring-time 
Planted  the  broad  fields  and  fruitful, 
Buried  in  the  earth  Mondamin; 
'T  was  the  women  who  in  Autumn 
Stripped  the  yellow  husks  of  harvest, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin,    30 
.Even  as  Hiawatha  taught  them. 

Once,  when  all  the  maize  was  planted, 
Hiawatha,  wise  and  thoughtful, 
Spake  and  said  to  Minnehaha, 
To  his  wife,  the  Laughing  Water: 
'You  shall  bless  to-night  the  cornfields 
Draw  a  magic  circle  round  them, 
To  protect  them  from  destruction, 
Blast  of  mildew,  blight  of  insect, 
Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields,  40 

Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear ! 

'  In  the  night,  when  all  is  silence, 
111  the  night,  when  all  is  darkness, 
When  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
Shuts  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 
So  that  not  an  ear  can  hear  you, 
So  that  not  an  eye  can  see  you, 
Rise  up  from  your  bed  in  silence, 
Lay  aside  your  garments  wholly, 
Walk  around  the  fields  you  planted,          50 
Round  the  borders  of  the  cornfields, 
Covered  by  your  tresses  only, 
Robed  with  darkness  as  a  garment. 

'  Thus  the  fields  shall  be  more  fruitful, 
And  the  passing  of  your  footsteps 
Draw  a  magic  circle  round  them, 
So  that  neither  blight  nor  mildew, 


Neither  burrowing  worm  nor  insect, 

Shall  pass  o'er  the  magic  circle; 

Not  the  dragon-fly,  Kwo-ne-she,  6e 

Nor  the  spider,  Subbekashe, 

Nor  the  grasshopper,  Pah-puk-keena, 

Nor  the  mighty  caterpillar, 

Way-muk-kwana,  with  the  bear-skin, 

King  of  all  the  caterpillars  ! ' ' 

On  the  tree-tops  near  the  cornfields 
Sat  the  hungry  crows  and  ravens, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
With  his  band  of  black  marauders. 
And  they  laughed  at  Hiawatha,  70 

Till  the  tree-tops  shook  with  laughter, 
With  their  melancholy  laughter, 
At  the  words  of  Hiawatha. 
'  Hear   him  ! '  said  they ;  '  hear   the   Wise 

Man, 
Hear  the  plots  of  Hiawatha  ! ' 

When  the  noisele'ss  night  descended 
Broad  and  dark  o'er  field  and  forest, 
When  the  mournful  Wawonaissa 
Sorrowing  sang  among  the  hemlocks, 
And  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin,  80 

Shut  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 
From  her  bed  rose  Laughing  Water, 
Laid  aside  her  garments  wholly, 
And  with  darkness  clothed  and  guarded, 
Unashamed  and  unaffrighted, 
Walked  securely  round  the  cornfields. 
Drew  the  sacred,  magic  circle 
Of  her  footprints  round  the  cornfields. 

No  one  but  the  Midnight  only 
Saw  her  beauty  in  the  darkness,  90 

No  one  but  the  Wawonaissa 
Heard  the  panting  of  her  bosom; 
Guskewau,  the  darkness,  wrapped  her 
Closely  in  his  sacred  mantle, 
So  that  none  might  see  her  beauty, 
So  that  none  might  boast,  '  I  saw  her  !  * 

On  the  morrow,  as  the  day  dawned, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Gathered  all  his  black  marauders, 

1  '  A  singular  proof  of  this  belief,  in  both  sexes,  of 
the  mysterious  influence  of  the  steps  of  a  woman  on  the 
vegetable  and  insect  creation,  is  found  in  an  ancient 
custom,  which  was  related  to  me,  respecting  corn- 
planting.  It  was  the  practice  of  the  hunter's  wife,  when 
the  field  of  corn  had  been  planted,  to  choose  the  first 
dark  or  overclouded  evening  to  perform  a  secret  cir- 
cuit, sans  habillement,  around  the  field.  For  this  pur- 
pose she  slipped  out  of  the  lodge  in  the  evening,  unob- 
served, to  some  obscure  nook,  where  she  completely 
disrobed.  Then,  taking  her  matchecota,  or  principal 
garment,  in  one  hand,  she  dragged  it  around  the  field 
This  was  thought  to  insure  a  prolific  crop,  and  to  pre- 
vent the  assaults  of  insects  and  worms  upon  the  grain. 
It  was  supposed  they  could  not  creep  ovsr  the  charmed 
line.'  —  One6ta,  p.  83.  (LoHGffELJ.0*"  N 


igo 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Crows  and  blackbirds,  jays  and  ravens,    100 

Clamorous  on  the  dusky  tree-tops, 

And  descended,  fast  and  fearless, 

On  the  fields  of  Hiawatha, 

On  the  grave  of  the  Mondamin. 

'  We  will  drag  Mondamin,'  said  they, 
•  From  the  grave  where  he  is  buried, 
Spite  of  all  the  magic  circles 
Laughing  Water  draws  around  it, 
Spite  of  all  the  sacred  footprints 
Minnehaha  stamps  upon  it  ! '  no 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha, 
Ever  thoughtful,  careful,  watchful, 
Had  o'erheard  the  scornful  laughter 
When  they  mocked  him  from  the  tree-tops. 
'  Kaw  ! '  he  said,  '  niy  friends  the  ravens  ! 
Kahgahgee,  my  King  of  Ravens  ! 
I  will  teach  you  all  a  lesson 
That  shall  not  be  soon  forgotten  ! ' 

He  had  risen  before  the  daybreak, 
He  had  spread  o'er  all  the  cornfields        120 
Snares  to  catch  the  black  marauders, 
And  was  lying  now  in  ambush 
In  the  neighboring  grove  of  pine-trees, 
Waiting  for  the  crows  and  blackbirds, 
Waiting  for  the  jays  and  ravens. 

Soon  they  came  with  caw  and  clamor, 
Rush  of  wings  and  cry  of  voices, 
To  their  work  of  devastation, 
Settling  down  upon  the  cornfields, 
Delving  deep  with  beak  and  talon,  130 

For  the  body  of  Mondamin. 
And  with  all  their  craft  and  cunning, 
All  their  skill  in  wiles  of  warfare, 
They  perceived  no  danger  near  them, 
Till  their  claws  became  entangled, 
Till  they  found  themselves  imprisoned 
In  the  snares  of  Hiawatha. 

From  his  place  of  ambush  came  he, 
Striding  terrible  among  them, 
And  so  awful  was  his  aspect  140 

That  the  bravest  quailed  with  terror. 
Without  mercy  he  destroyed  them 
Right  and  left,  by  tens  and  twenties, 
And  their  wretched,  lifeless  bodies 
Hung  aloft  on  poles  for  scarecrows 
Round  the  consecrated  cornfields, 
As  a  signal  of  his  vengeance, 
As  a  warning  to  marauders. 

Only  Kahgahcree,  the  leader, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens^  150 

He  alone  was  spared  among  them 
As  a  hostage  for  his  people. 
With  his  prisoner-string  he  bound  him, 
Led  him  captive  to  his  wigwam, 


Tied  him  fast  with  cords  of  elm-bark 
To  the  ridge-pole  of  his  wigwam. 

'  Kahgahgee,  my  raven  ! '  said  he, 
'  You  the  leader  of  the  robbers, 
You  the  plotter  of  this  mischief, 
The  contriver  of  this  outrage,  i&c 

I  will  keep  you,  I  will  hold  you, 
As  a  hostage  for  your  people, 
As  a  pledge  of  good  behavior  ! ' 

And  he  left  him,  grim  and  sulky, 
Sitting  in  the  morning  sunshine 
On  the  summit  of  the  wigwam, 
Croaking  fiercely  his  displeasure, 
Flapping  his  great  sable  pinions, 
Vainly  struggling  for  his  freedom, 
Vainly  calling  on  his  people  !  170 

Summer  passed,  and  -Shawondasee 
Breathed  his  sighs  o'er  all  the  landscape, 
From  the  South-land  sent  his  ardors, 
Wafted  kisses  warm  and  tender; 
And  the  maize-field  grew  and  ripened, 
Till  it  stood  in  all  the  splendor 
Of  its  garments  green  and  yellow, 
Of  its  tassels  and  its  plumage, 
And  the  maize-ears  full  and  shining 
Gleamed  from  bursting  sheaths  of  verdure. 

Then  Nokomis,  the  old  woman,  181 

Spake,  and  said  to  Minnehaha: 
'  'Tis  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling; 
All  the  wild  rice  has  been  gathered, 
And  the  maize  is  ripe  and  ready; 
Let  us  gather  in  the  harvest, 
Let  us  wrestle  with  Mondamin, 
Strip  him  of  his  plumes  and  tassels, 
Of  his  garments  green  and  yellow! ' 

And  the  merry  Laughing  Water  190 

Went  rejoicing  from  the  wigwam, 
With  Nokorais,  old  and  wrinkled, 
And  they  called  the  women  round  them, 
Called  the  young  men  and  the  maidens, 
To  the  harvest  of  the  cornfields, 
To  the  husking  of  the  maize-ear. 

Ou  the  border  of  the  forest, 
Underneath  the  fragrant  pine-trees, 
Sat  the  old  men  and  the  warriors 
Smoking  in  the  pleasant  shadow.  200 

In  uninterrupted  silence 
Looked  they  at  the  gamesome  labor 
Of  the  young  men  and  the  women; 
Listened  to  their  noisy  talking, 
To  their  laughter  and  their  singing, 
Heard  them  chattering  like  the  magpies, 
Heard  them  laughing  like  the  blue-jays, 
Heard  them  singing  like  the  robins. 

And  whene'er  some  lucky  maiden 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


Found  a  red  ear  in  the  husking,  210 

Found  a  maize-ear  red  as  blood  is, 

'  Nushka! '  cried  they  all  together, 

'  Nushka!  you  shall  have  a  sweetheart, 

You  shall  have  a  handsome  husband! ' 

'  Ugh! '  the  old  men  all  responded 

From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees. 

And  whene'er  a  youth  or  maiden 
Found  a  crooked  ear  in  husking, 
Found  a  maize-ear  in  the  husking 
Blighted,  mildewed,  or  misshapen,  220 

Then  they  laughed  and  sang  together, 
Crept  and  limped  about  the  cornfields, 
Mimicked  in  their  gait  and  gestures 
Some  old  man,  bent  almost  double, 
Singing  singly  or  together: 
'  Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields  ! 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear  ! ' 1 

Till  the  cornfields  rang  with  laughter, 
Till  from  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens,  230 

Screamed  and  quivered  in  his  anger, 
And  from  all  the  neighboring  tree-tops 
Cawed  and  croaked  the  black  marauders. 
'  Ugh  ! '  the  old  men  all  responded, 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees  ! 

XIV 

PICTURE-WRITING 

IN  those  days  said  Hiawatha, 

'  Lo  !  how  all  things  fade  and  perish  ! 

From  the  memory  of  the  old  men 

1  '  If  one  of  the  young  female  buskers  finds  a  red  ear 
of  corn,  it  is  typical  of  a  brave  admirer,  and  is  regarded 
as  a  fitting  present  to  some  young  warrior.  But  if  the 
ear  be  crooked,  and  tapering  to  a  point,  no  matter  what 
color,  the  whole  circle  is  set  in  a  roar,  and  wa-ge-min  is 
the  word  shouted  aloud.  It  is  the  symbol  of  a  thief  in 
the  cornfield.  It  is  considered  as  the  image  of  an  old 
man  stooping  as  he  enters  the  lot.  Had  the  chisel  of 
Praxiteles  been  employed  to  produce  this  image,  it 
could  not  more  vividly  bring  to  the  minds  of  the  merry 
group  the  idea  of  a  pilferer  of  their  favorite  monda- 
min.  .  .  . 

"The  literal  meaning  of  the  term  is,  a  mass,  or 
crooked  ear  of  grain ;  but  the  ear  of  corn  so  called  is  a 
conventional  type  of  a  little  old  roan  pilfering  ears  of 
corn  in  a  cornfield.  It  is  in  this  manner  that  a  single 
word  or  term,  in  these  curious  languages,  becomes  the 
fruitful  parent  of  many  ideas.  And  we  can  thus  per- 
ceive why  it  is  that  the  word  wagemin  is  alone  compe- 
tent to  excite  merriment  in  the  husking  circle. 

'  This  term  is  taken  as  a  basis  of  the  cereal  chorus, 
or  corn  song,  as  sung  by  the  Northern  Algonquin 
tribes.  It  is  coupled  with  the  phrase  Paimosaid,  —  * 
perrnutative  form  of  the  Indian  substantive,  made  from 
the  verb  pim-o-sa,  to  walk.  Its  literal  meaning  is,  he 
who  walks,  or  the  walker;  but  the  ideas  conveyed  by  it 
are,  he  who  walks  by  night  to  pilfer  corn.  It  offers, 
therefore,  a  kind  of  parallelism  in  expression  to  the 
preceding  term.'  —  One6ta,  p.  254.  (LONGFELLOW.) 


Pass  away  the  great  traditions, 

The  achievements  of  the  warriors, 

The  adventures  of  the  hunters, 

All  the  wisdom  of  the  Medas, 

All  the  craft  of  the  Wabenos, 

All  the  marvellous  dreams  and  visions 

Of  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets  !  K 

'  Great  men  die  and  are  forgotten, 
Wise  men  speak;  their  words  of  wisdom 
Perish  in  the  ears  that  hear  them, 
Do  not  reach  the  generations 
That,  as  yet  unborn,  are  waiting 
In  the  great,  mysterious  darkness 
Of  the  speechless  days  that  shall  be  ! 

'  On  the  grave-posts  of  our  fathers 
Are  no  signs,  no  figures  painted; 
Who  are  in  those  graves  we  know  not,      20 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 
Of  what  kith  they  are  and  kindred, 
From  what  old,  ancestral  Totem, 
Be  it  Eagle,  Bear,  or  Beaver, 
They  descended,  this  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 

'  Face  to  face  we  speak  together, 
But  we  cannot  speak  when  absent, 
Cannot  send  our  voices  from  us 
To  the  friends  that  dwell  afar  off;  30 

Cannot  send  a  secret  message, 
But  the  bearer  learns  our  secret, 
May  pervert  it,  may  betray  it, 
May  reveal  it  unto  others.' 

Thus  said  Hiawatha,  walking 
In  the  solitary  forest, 
Pondering,  musing  in  the  forest, 
On  the  welfare  of  his  people. 

From  his  pouch  he  took  his  colors, 
Took  his  paints  of  different  colors,  4* 

On  the  smooth  bark  of  a  birch-tree  • 
Painted  many  shapes  and  figures, 
Wonderful  and  my-stic  figures, 
And  each  figure  had  a  meaning, 
Each  some  word  or  thought  suggested. 

Gitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 
He,  the  Master  of  Life,  was  painted 
As  an  egg,  with  points  projecting 
To  the  four  winds  of  the  heavens. 
Everywhere  is  the  Great  Spirit,  Sc 

Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Mitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 
He  the  dreadful  Spirit  of  Evil, 
As  a  serpent  was  depicted, 
As  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpent. 
Very  crafty,  very  cunning, 
Is  the  creeping  Spirit  of  Evil, 
Was  the  meaning  of  this  symboL 


192 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Life  and  Death  he  drew  as  circles, 
Life    was    white,    but    Death    was   dark- 
ened; 60 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  he  painted, 
Man  and  beast,  and  fish  and  reptile, 
Forests,  mountains,  lakes,  and  rivers. 

For  the  earth  he  drew  a  straight  line, 
For  the  sky  a  bow  above  it; 
White  the  space  between  for  daytime, 
Filled  with  little  stars  for  night-time ; 
On  the  left  a  point  for  sunrise, 
On  the  right  a  point  for  sunset, 
On  the  top  a  point  for  noontide,  7o 

And  for  rain  and  cloudy  weather 
Waving  lines  descending  from  it. 

Footprints  pointing  towards  a  wigwam 
Were  a  sign  of  invitation, 
Were  a  sign  of  guests  assembling; 
Bloody  hands  with  palms  uplifted 
Were  a  symbol  of  destruction, 
Were  a  hostile  sign  and  symbol. 

All  these  things  did  Hiawatha 
Show  unto  his  wondering  people,  80 

And  interpreted  their  meaning, 
And  he  said:  'Behold,  your  grave-posts 
Have  no  mark,  no  sign,  nor  symbol, 
Go  and  paint  them  all  with  figures; 
Each  one  with  its  household  symbol, 
With  its  own  ancestral  Totem; 
So  that  those  who  follow  after 
May  distinguish  them  and  know  them. 

And  they  painted  on  the  grave-posts 
Ou  the  graves  yet  unforgotten,  90 

Each  his  own  ancestral  Totem, 
Each  the  symbol  of  his  household; 
Figures  of  the  Bear  and  Reindeer, 
Of  the  Turtle,  Crane,  and  Beaver, 
Each  inverted  as  a  token 
That  the  owner  was  departed, 
That  the  chief  who  bore  the  symbol 
Lay  beneath  in  dust  and  ashes. 

And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets, 
The  Wabenos,  the  Magicians,  100 

And  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
Painted  upon  bark  and  deer-skin 
Figures  for  the  songs  they  chanted, 
For  each  song  a  separate  symbol, 
Figures  mystical  and  awful, 
Figures  strange  and  brightly  colored; 
And  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 
Each  some  magic  song  suggested. 

The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Flashing  light  through  all  the  heaven;     no 
The  Great  Serpent,  the  Kenabeek, 
With  his  bloody  crest  erected, 


Creeping,  looking  into  heaven; 
In  the  sky  the  sun,  that  listens, 
And  the  moon  eclipsed  and  dying; 
Owl  and  eagle,  crane  and  hen-hawk, 
And  the  cormorant,  bird  of  magic; 
Headless  men,  that  walk  the  heavens, 
Bodies  lying  pierced  with  arrows, 
Bloody  hands  of  death  uplifted,  120 

Flags  on  graves,  and  great  war-captains 
Grasping  both  the  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Such  as  these  the  shapes  they  painted 
On  the  birch-bark  and  the  deer-skin; 
Songs  of  war  and  songs  of  hunting, 
Songs  of  medicine  and  of  magic, 
All  were  written  in  these  figures, 
For  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 
Each  its  separate  song  recorded. 

Nor  forgotten  was  the  Love-Song,        130 
The  most  subtle  of  all  medicines, 
The  most  potent  spell  of  magic, 
Dangerous  more  than  war  or  hunting  ! 
Thus  the  Love-Song  was  recorded, 
Symbol  and  interpretation. 

First  a  human  figure  standing, 
Painted  in  the  brightest  scarlet; 
'T  is  the  lover,  the  musician, 
And  the  meaning  is,  '  My  painting 
Makes  me  powerful  over  others.'  140 

Then  the  figure  seated,  singing, 
Playing  on  a  drum  of  magic, 
And  the  interpretation,  '  Listen  ! 
'T  is  my  voice  you  hear,  my  singing  ! ' 

Then  the  same  red  figure  seated 
In  the  shelter  of  a  wigwam, 
And  the  meaning  of  the  symbol, 
'  I  will  come  and  sit  beside  you 
In  the  mystery  of  my  passion  ! ' 

Then  two  figures,  man  and  woman,      150 
Standing  hand  in  hand  together 
With  their  hands  so  clasped  together 
That  they  seemed  in  one  united, 
And  the  words  thus  represented 
Are,  '  I  see  your  heart  within  you, 
And  your  cheeks  are  red  with  blushes  ! ' 

Next  the  maiden  on  an  island, 
In  the  centre  of  an  island; 
And  the  song  this  shape  suggested 
Was,  '  Though  you  were  at  a  distance,     160 
Were  upon  some  far-off  island, 
Such  the  spell  I  cast  upon  you, 
Such  the  magic  power  of  passion, 
I  could  straightway  draw  you  to  me  ! ; 

Then  the  figure  of  the  maiden 
Sleeping,  and  the  lover  near  her, 
Whispering  to  her  in  her  slumbers. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


'93 


Saying,  '  Though  you  were  far  from  me 

In  the  land  of  Sleep  and  Silence, 

Still  the  voice  of  love  would  reach  you  ! '   170 

And  the  last  of  all  the  figures 
Was  a  heart  within  a  circle, 
Drawn  within  a  magic  circle ; 
And  the  image  had  this  meaning: 
'  Naked  lies  your  heart  before  me, 
To  your  naked  heart  I  whisper  !  ' 

Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha, 
In  his  wisdom,  taught  the  people 
All  the  mysteries  of  painting, 
All  the  art  of  Picture- Writing,  180 

On  the  smooth  bark  of  the  birch-tree, 
On  the  white  skin  of  the  reindeer, 
On  the  grave-posts  of  the  village. 

XV 
HIAWATHA'S  LAMENTATION 

Ix  those  days  the  Evil  Spirits, 
All  the  Manitos  of  mischief, 
Fearing  Hiawatha's  wisdom, 
And  his  love  for  Cbibiabos, 
Jealous  of  their  faithful  friendship, 
And  their  noble  words  and  actions, 
Made  at  length  a  league  against  them, 
To  molest  them  and  destroy  them. 

Hiawatha,  wise  and  wary, 
Often  said  to  Chibiabos,  10 

'  O  my  brother  !   do  not  leave  me, 
Lest  the  Evil  Spirits  harm  you  ! ' 
Chibiabos,  young  and  heedless, 
Laughing  shook  his  coal-black  tresses, 
Answered  ever  sweet  and  childlike, 
'  Do  not  fear  for  me,  O  brother  ! 
Harm  and  evil  come  not  near  me  ! ' 

Once  when  Peboan,  the  Winter, 
Roofed  with  ice  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
When  the  snow-flakes,whirling  downward, 
Hissed  among  the  withered  oak-leaves,     21 
Changed  the  pine-trees  into  wigwams, 
Covered  all  the  earth  with  silence,  — 
Armed  with  arrows,  shod  with  snow-shoes, 
Heeding  not  his  brother's  warning, 
Fearing  not  the  Evil  Spirits, 
Forth  to  hunt  the  deer  with  antlers 
All  alone  went  Chibiabos. 

Right  across  the  Big-Sea-Water 
Sprang  with  speed  the  deer  before  him.    30 
With  the  wind  and  snow  he  followed, 
O'er  the  treacherous  ice  he  followed, 
Wild  with  all  the  fierce  commotion 
And  the  rapture  of  the  hunting. 


But  beneath,  the  Evil  Spirits 
Lay  in  ambush,  waiting  for  him, 
Brok->  the  treacherous  ice  beneath  him, 
Dragged  him  downward  to  the  bottom, 
Buried  hi  the  sand  his  body. 
Unktahee,  the  god  of  water,  40 

He  the  god  of  the  Dqcotahs, 
Drowned  him  in  the  deep  abysses 
Of  the  lake  of  Gitche  Gumee. 

From  the  headlands  Hiawatha 
Sent  forth  such  a  wail  of  anguish, 
Such  a  fearful  lamentation, 
That  the  bison  paused  to  listen, 
And  the  wolves  howled  from  the  prairies, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  distance 
Starting  answered,  '  Baim-wawa  ! '  54 

Then  his  face  with  black  he  painted, 
With  his  robe  his  head  he  covered, 
In  his  wigwam  sat  lamenting, 
Seven  long  weeks  he  sat  lamenting, 
Uttering  still  this  moan  of  sorrow  :  — 

'  He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ! 
He  has  gone  from  us  forever, 
He  has  moved  a  little  nearer 
To  the  Master  of  all  music,  6c 

To  the  Master  of  all  singing  ! 
O  my  brother,  Chibiabos.! ' 

And  the  melancholy  fir-trees 
Waved  their  dark  green  fans  above  him, 
Waved  their  purple  cones  above  him, 
Sighing  with  him  to  console  him, 
Mingling  with  his  lamentation 
Their  complaining,  their  lamenting. 

Came  the  Spring,  and  all  the  forest 
Looked  in  vain  for  Chibiabos;  70 

Sighed  the  rivulet,  Sebowisha, 
Sighed  the  rushes  in  the  meadow. 

From  the  tree-tops  sang  the  bluebird, 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
'  Chibiabos  !  Chibiabos ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! ' 

From  the  wigwam  sang  the  robin, 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
'Chibiabos!  Chibiabos! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweetest  singer  ! '  8« 

And  at  night  through  all  the  forest 
Went  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Wailing  went  the  Wawonaissa, 
'  Chibiabos  !  Chibiabos  ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  !  ' 

Then  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas. 
The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 
And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets, 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Came  to  visit  Hiawatha;  90 

Built  a  Sacred  Lodge  beside  him, 
To  appease  him,  to  console  him, 
Walked  in  silent,  grave  procession, 
Bearing  each  a  pouch  of  healing, 
Skin  of  beaver,  lynx,  or  otter, 
Filled  with  magic  roots  and  simples, 
Filled  with  very  potent  medicines. 

When  he  heard  their  steps  approaching, 
Hiawatha  ceased  lamenting, 
Called  no  more  on  Chibiabos;  100 

Naught  he  questioned,  naught  he  answered, 
But  his  mournful  head  uncovered, 
From  his  face  the  mourning  colors 
Washed  he  slowly  and  in  silence, 
Slowly  and  in  silence  followed 
Onward  to  the  Sacred  Wigwam. 

There  a  magic  drink  they  gave  him, 
Made  of  Nahma-wusk,  the  spearmint, 
And  Wabeno-wusk,  the  yarrow, 
Boots  of  power,  and  herbs  of  healing;      no 
Beat  their  drums,  and  shook  their  rattles; 
Chanted  singly  and  in  chorus, 
Mystic  songs  like  these,  they  chanted. 

'  I  myself,  myself  !  behold  me  ! 
'T  is  the  great  Gray  Eagle  talking; 
Come,  ye  white  crows,  come  and  hear  him! 
The  loud-speaking  thunder  helps  me; 
All  the  unseen  spirits  help  me; 
I  can  hear  their  voices  calling, 
All  around  the  sky  I  hear  them  !  120 

I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 
I  can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  !  ' 

'  Hi-au-ha  ! '  replied  the  chorus, 
'  Way-ha-way  ! '  the  mystic  chorus. 

'  Friends  of  mine  are  all  the  serpents  ! 
Hear  me  shake  my  skin  of  hen-hawk  ! 
Mahng,  the  white  loon,  I  can  kill  him; 
I  can  shoot  your  heart  and  kill  it ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 
I  can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  ! '  •        130 

'  Hi-au-ha  ! '  replied  the  chorus. 
*  Way-ha-way  ! '  the  mystic  chorus. 

'  I  myself,  myself  !  the  prophet ! 
When  I  speak  the  wigwam  trembles, 
Shakes  the  Sacred  Lodge  with  terror, 
Hands  unseen  begin  to  shake  it ! 
When  I  walk,  the  sky  I  tread  on 
Bends  and  makes  a  noise  beneath  me  ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother! 
Rise  and  speak,  O  Hiawatha  ! '  140 

'  Hi-au-ha!  '  replied  the  chorus, 
1  Way-ha-way ! '  the  mystic  chorus. 

Then  they  shook  their  medicine-pouches 
O'er  the  head  of  Hiawatha, 


Danced  their  medicine-dance  around  him; 
And  upstarting  wild  and  haggard, 
Like  a  man  from  dreams  awakened, 
He  was  healed  of  all  his  madness. 
As  the  clouds  are  swept  from  heaven, 
Straightway  from  his  brain  departed        ip 
All  his  moody  melancholy; 
As  the  ice  is  swept  from  rivers, 
Straightway  from  his  heart  departed 
All  his  sorrow  and  affliction. 

Then  they  summoned  Chibiabos 
From  his  grave  beneath  the  waters, 
From  the  sands  of  Gitche  Gumee 
Summoned  Hiawatha's  brother. 
And  so  mighty  was  the  magic 
Of  that  cry  and  invocation,  i6c 

That  he  heard  it  as  he  lay  there 
Underneath  the  Big-Sea-Water; 
From  the  sand  he  rose  and  listened, 
Heard  the  music  and  the  singing, 
Came,  obedient  to  the  summons, 
To  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 
But  to  enter  they  forbade  him. 

Through  a  chink  a  coal  they  gave  him, 
Through  the  door  a  burning  fire-brand; 
Ruler  in  the  Land  of  Spirits,  17 

Ruler  o'er  the  dead,  they  made  him, 
Telling  him  a  tire  to  kindle 
For  all  those  that  died  thereafter, 
Camp-fires  for  their  night  encampments 
On  their  solitary  journey 
To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

From  the  village  of  his  childhood, 
From  the  homes  of  those  who  knew  him, 
Passing  silent  through  the  forest,  180 

Like  a  smoke-wreath  wafted  sideways, 
Slowly  vanished  Chibiabos  ! 
Where  he  passed,  the  branches  moved  not 
Where  he  trod,  the  grasses  bent  not, 
And  the  fallen  leaves  of  last  year 
Made  no  sound  beneath  his  footsteps. 

Four  whole  days  he  journeyed  onward 
Down  the  pathway  of  the  dead  men; 
On  the  dead-man's  strawberry  feasted, 
Crossed  the  melancholy  river,  igr 

On  the  swinging  log  he  crossed  it, 
Came  unto  the  Lake  of  Silver, 
In  the  Stone  Canoe  was  carried 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows. 

On  that  journey,  moving  slowly, 
Many  weary  spirits  saw  he, 
Panting  under  heavy  burdens, 
Laden  with  war-clubs,  bows  and  arrows, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


'95 


Robes  of  fur,  and  pots  and  kettles,  20 

And  with  food  that  friends  had  given 
For  that  solitary  journey. 

'  Ay  !  why  do  the  living,'  said  they, 
'  Lay  such  heavy  burdens  on  us  ! 
Better  were  it  to  go  naked, 
Better  were  it  to  go  fasting, 
Than  to  bear  such  heavy  burdens 
On  our  long  and  weary  journey  ! ' 

Forth  then  issued  Hiawatha, 
Wandered  eastward,  wandered  westward, 
Teaching  men  the  use  of  simples  2 

And  the  antidotes  for  poisons, 
And  the  cure  of  all  diseases. 
Thus  was  first  made  known  to  mortals 
All  the  mystery  of  Medamin, 
All  the  sacred  art  of  healing. 


XVI 

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS 

You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He,  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm-Fool, 
Vexed  the  village  with  disturbance; 
fou  shall  hear  of  all  his  mischief, 
\nd  his  flight  from  Hiawatha, 
&.nd  his  wondrous  transmigrations, 
A.nd  the  end  of  his  adventures. 

On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
i3n  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo,  10 

rJy  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water 
Stood  the  lodge  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
It  was  he  who  in  his  frenzy 
Whirled  these  drifting  sands  together, 
3n  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 
When,  among  the  guests  assembled, 
He  so  merrily  and  madly 
Danced  at  Hiawatha's  wedding, 
Danced  the  Beggar's  Dance  to  please  them. 

Now,  in  search  of  new  adventures,         20 
From  his  lodge  went  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came  with  speed  into  the  village, 
Found  the  young  men  all  assembled 
In  the  lodge  of  old  lagoo, 
Listening  to  his  monstrous  stories, 
To  his  wonderful  adventures. 

He  was  telling  them  the  story 
Of  Ojeeg,  the  Summer-Maker, 
How  he  made  a  hole  in  heaven, 
How  he  climbed  up  into  heaven,  30 

And  let  out  the  summer-weather, 
The  perpetual,  pleasant  Summer; 


How  the  Otter  first  essayed  it; 
How  the  Beaver,  Lynx,  and  Badger 
Tried  in  turn  the  great  achievement, 
From  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
Smote  their  fists  against  the  heavens, 
Smote  against  the  sky  their  foreheads, 
Cracked  the  sky,  but  could  not  break  it; 
How  the  Wolverine,  uprising,  4c 

Made  him  ready  for  the  encounter, 
Bent  his  knees  down,  like  a  squirrel, 
Drew  his  arms  back,  like  a  cricket. 

'  Once  he  leaped,'  said  old  lagoo, 
'  Once  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Bent  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  waters  rise  beneath  it; 
Twice  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Cracked  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  freshet  is  at  highest !  50 

Thrice  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Broke  the  shattered  sky  asunder, 
And  he  disappeared  within  it, 
And  Ojeeg,  the  Fisher  Weasel, 
With  a  bound  went  in  behind  him  ! ' 

'  Hark  you  ! '  shouted  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway; 
'  I  am  tired  of  all  this  talking, 
Tired  of  old  lagoo's  stories, 
Tired  of  Hiawatha's  wisdom.  6c 

Here  is  something  to  amuse  you, 
Better  than  this  endless  talking.' 

Then  from  out  his  pouch  of  wolf-skin 
Forth  he  drew,  with  solemn  manner, 
All  the  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters,1 
Pugasaing,  with  thirteen  pieces. 
White  on  one  side  were  they  painted, 
And  vermilion  on  the  other; 
Two  Kenabeeks  or  great  serpents, 
Two  Ininewug  or  wedge-men,  70 

One  great  war-club,  Pugamaugun, 
And  one  slender  fish,  the  Keego, 
Four  round  pieces,  Ozawabeeks, 
And  three  Sheshebwug  or  ducklings. 
All  were  made  of  bone  and  painted, 
All  except  the  Ozawabeeks; 
These  were  brass,  on  one  side  burnished, 
And  were  black  upon  the  other. 

In  a  wooden  bowl  he  placed  them, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together,  So 

Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him, 
Thus  exclaiming  and  explaining: 

i  This  Game  of  the  Bowl  is  the  principal  game  of 
hazard  among  the  Northern  tribes  of  Indians.  Mr. 
Schoolcraft  gives  a  particular  account  of  it  in  One6ta, 
p.  85.  ...  See  also  his  History,  Conditions,  and  Pro- 
specis  of  the  Indian  Tribes,  part  li,  p.  72. 
LOW.) 


I96 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


*  Red  side  up  are  all  the  pieces, 
\nd  one  great  Kenabeek  standing 
On  the  bright  side  of  a  brass  piece, 
On  a  burnished  Ozawabeek; 
Thirteen  tens  and  eight  are  counted.' 

Then  again  he  shook  the  pieces, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together, 
Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him,     90 
Still  exclaiming  and  explaining: 
4  White  are  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
White  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men, 
Red  are  all  the  other  pieces; 
Five  tens  and  an  eight  are  counted.' 

Thus  he  taught  the  game  of  hazard, 
Thus  displayed  it  and  explained  it, 
Running  through  its  various  chances, 
Various  changes,  various  meanings: 
Twenty  curious  eyes  stared  at  him,  100 

Full  of  eagerness  stared  at  him. 

'  Many  games,'  said  old  lagoo, 
'  Many  games  of  skill  and  hazard 
Have  I  seen  in  different  nations, 
Have  I  played  in  different  countries. 
He  who  plays  with  old  lagoo 
Must  have  very  nimble  fingers; 
Though  you  think  yourself  so  skilful, 
I  can  beat  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
I  can  even  give  you  lessons  no 

In  your  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters  ! ' 

So  they  sat  and  played  together, 
All  the  old  men  and  the  young  men, 
Played  for  dresses,  weapons,  wampum, 
Played   till   midnight,    played    till    morn- 
ing. 

Played  until  the  Yenadizze, 
Till  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Of  their  treasures  had  despoiled  them, 
Of  the  best  of  all  their  dresses, 
Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine,          120 
Belts  of  wampum,  crests  of  feathers, 
Warlike  weapons,  pipes  and  pouches. 
Twenty  eyes  glared  wildly  at  him, 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him. 

Said  the  lucky  Pau-Puk-Keewis: 
'  In  my  wigwam  I  am  lonely, 
In  my  wanderings  and  adventures 
I  have  need  of  a  companion, 
Fain  would  have  a  Meshinauwa, 
An  attendant  and  pipe-bearer.  130 

I  will  venture  all  these  winnings, 
All  these  garments  heaped  about  me, 
All  this  wampum,  all  these  feathers, 
On  a  single  throw  will  venture 
All  against  the  young  man  yonder  ! ' 
T  was  a  youth  of  sixteen  summers, 


'T  was  a  nephew  of  lagoo; 
Face-in-a-Mist,  the  people  called  him. 

As  the  fire  burns  in  a  pipe-head 
Dusky  red  beneath  the  ashes,  M0 

So  beneath  his  shaggy  eyebrows 
Glowed  the  eyes  of  old  lagoo. 
'  Ugh  ! '  he  answered  very  fiercely ; 
'  Ugh  !  '  they  answered  all  and  each  one. 

Seized  the  wooden  bowl  the  old  man, 
Closely  in  his  bony  fingers 
Clutched  the  fatal  bowl,  Onagon, 
Shook  it  fiercely  and  with  fury, 
Made  the  pieces  ring  together 
As  he  threw  them  down  before  him.         150 

Red  were  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
Red  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men, 
Red  the  Sheshebwug,  the  ducklings, 
Black  the  four  brass  Ozawabeeks, 
White  alone  the  fish,  the  Keego; 
Only  five  the  pieces  counted  ! 

Then  the  smiling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook  the  bowl  and  threw  the  pieces; 
Lightly  in  the  air  he  tossed  them, 
And  they  fell  about  him  scattered;  160 

Dark  and  bright  the  Ozawabeeks. 
Red  and  white  the  other  pieces, 
And  upright  among  the  others 
One  Ininewug  was  standing, 
Even  as  crafty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood  alone  among  the  players, 
Saying,  '  Five  tens  !  mine  the  game  is  !  ' 

Twenty  eyes  glared  at  him  fiercely, 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him, 
As  he  turned  and  left  the  wigwam,          170 
Followed  by  his  Meshinauwa, 
By  the  nephew  of  lagoo, 
By  the  tall  and  graceful  stripling, 
Bearing  in  his  arms  the  winnings, 
Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 
Belts  of  wampum,  pipes  and  weapons. 

'  Carry  them,'  said  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pointing  with  his  fan  of  feathers, 
'  To  my  wigwam  far  to  eastward, 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo  ! '  iSc 

Hot  and  red  with  smoke  and  gambling 
Were  the  eyes  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  came  forth  to  the  freshness 
Of  the  pleasant  Summer  morning. 
All  the  birds  were  singing  gayly, 
All  the  streamlets  flowing  swiftly, 
And  the  heart  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang  with  pleasure  as  the  birds  sing, 
Beat  with  triumph  like  the  streamlets, 
As  he  wandered  through  the  village,        190 
In  the  early  gray  of  morning, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


197 


With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers, 
With  his  plumes  and  tufts  of  swan's  down, 
Till  he  reached  the  farthest  wigwam, 
Reached  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha. 

Silent  was  it  and  deserted; 
No  one  met  him  at  the  doorway, 
No  one  came  to  bid  him  welcome; 
But  the  birds  were  singing  round  it, 
In  and  out  and  round  the  doorway,  200 

Hopping,  singing,  fluttering,  feeding, 
And  aloft  upon  the  ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Sat  with  fiery  eyes,  and,  screaming, 
Flapped  his  wings  at  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

'  All  are  gone  !  the  lodge  is  empty  ! ' 
Thus  it  was  spake  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
In  his  heart  resolving  mischief;  — 
'  Gone  is  wary  Hiawatha, 
Gone  the  silly  Laughing  Water,  no 

Gone  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
And  the  lodge  is  left  unguarded  ! ' 

By  the  neck  he  seized  the  raven, 
Whirled  it  round  him  like  a  rattle, 
Like  a  medicine-pouch  he  shook  it, 
Strangled  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 
From  the  ridge-pole  of  the  wigwam 
Left  its  lifeless  body  hanging, 
As  an  insult  to  its  master, 
As  a  taunt  to  Hiawatha.  220 

With  a  stealthy  step  he  entered, 
Round  the  lodge  in  wild  disorder 
Threw  the  household  things  about  him, 
Piled  together  in  confusion 
Bowls  of  wood  and  earthen  kettles, 
Robes  of  buffalo  and  beaver, 
Skins  of  otter,  lynx,  and  ermine, 
As  an  insult  to  Nokomis, 
As  a  taunt  to  Minnehaha. 

Then  departed  Pau-Puk-Keewis,  230 

Whistling,  singing  through  the  forest, 
Whistling  gayly  to  the  squirrels, 
Who  from  hollow  boughs  above  him 
Dropped  their  acorn-shells  upon  him, 
Singing  gayly  to  the  wood  birds, 
Who  from  out  the  leafy  darkness 
Answered  with  a  song  as  merry. 

Then  he  climbed  the  rocky  headlands, 
Looking  o'er  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
Perched  himself  upon  their  summit,         240 
Waiting  full  of  mirth  and  mischief 
The  return  of  Hiawatha. 

Stretched  upon  his  back  he  lay  there ; 
Far  below  him  plashed  the  waters, 
Plashed  and  washed  the  dreamy  waters; 
Far  above  him  swam  the  heavens, 


Swam  the  dizzy,  dreamy  heavens ; 
Round  him  hovered,  fluttered,  rustled 
Hiawatha's  mountain  chickens, 
Flock-wise  swept  and  wheeled  about  him, 
Almost  brushed  him  with  their  pinions.  231 

And  he  killed  them  as  he  lay  there, 
Slaughtered  them  by  tens  and  twenties, 
Threw  their  bodies  down  the  headland, 
Threw  them  on  the  beach  below  him, 
Till  at  length  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gull, 
Perched  upon  a  crag  above  them, 
Shouted:  « It  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 
He  is  slaying  us  by  hundreds  ! 
Send  a  message  to  our  brother,  169 

Tidings  send  to  Hiawatha  ! ' 


XVII 

THE    HUNTING    OF    PAU-PUK-KEEWIS 

FULL  of  wrath  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  came  into  the  village, 
Found  the  people  in  confusion, 
Heard  of  all  the  misdemeanors, 
All  the  malice  and  the  mischief, 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard  his  breath  came  through  his  nos- 
trils, 

Through  his  teeth  he  buzzed  and  muttered 
Words  of  anger  and  resentment, 
Hot  and  humming,  like  a  hornet.  ic 

<  I  will  slay  this  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Slay  this  mischief-maker  ! '  said  he. 
'  Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 
That  my  wrath  shall  not  attain  him, 
That  my  vengeance  shall  not  reach  him  ! ' 

Then  in  swift  pursuit  departed 
Hiawatha  and  the  hunters 
On  the  trail  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Through  the  forest,  where  he  passed  it, 
To  the  headlands  where  he  rested; 
But  they  found  not  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Only  in  the  trampled  grasses, 
In  the  whortleberry-bushes, 
Found  the  couch  where  he  had  rested, 
Found  the  impress  of  his  body. 

From  the  lowlands  far  beneath  them, 
From  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis,  turning  backward, 
Made  a  gesture  of  defiance,  jc 

Made  a  gesture  of  derision; 
And  aloud  cried  Hiawatha, 
From  the  summit  of  the  mountains: 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


1  Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 
But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 
And  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  ! ' 

Over  rock  and  over  river, 
Thorough  bush,  and  brake,  and  forest, 
Ran  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis;  40 

Like  an  antelope  he  bounded, 
Till  he  came  unto  a  streamlet 
In  the  middle  of  the  forest, 
To  a  streamlet  still  and  tranquil, 
That  had  overflowed  its  margin, 
To  a  dam  made  by  the  beavers, 
To  a  pond  of  quiet  water, 
Where  knee-deep  the  trees  were  standing, 
Where  the  water-lilies  floated, 
Where  the  rushes  waved  and  whispered.  50 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On  the  dam  of  trunks  and  branches, 
Through  whose  chinks  the  water  spouted, 
O'er  whose  summit  flov  ed  the  streamlet. 
From  the  bottom  rose  the  beaver, 
Looked  with  two  great  eyes  of  wonder, 
Eyes  that  seemed  to  ask  a  question, 
At  the  stranger,  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er  his  ankles  flowed  the  streamlet,         60 
Flowed  the  bright  and  silvery  water, 
And  he  spake  unto  the  beaver, 
With  a  smile  he  spake  in  this  wise: 

'  O  my  friend  Ahmeek,  the  beaver, 
Cool  and  pleasant  is  the  water; 
Let  me  dive  into  the  water, 
Let  me  rest  there  in  your  lodges; 
Change  me,  too,  into  a  beaver  !  ' 

Cautiously  replied  the  beaver, 
With  reserve  he  thus  made  answer:  70 

'  Let  me  first  consult  the  others, 
Let  me  ask  the  other  beavers.' 
Down  he  sank  into  the  water, 
Heavily  sank  he,  as  a  stone  sinks, 
Down  among  the  leaves  and  branches, 
Brown  and  matted  at  the  bottom. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er  his  ankles  flowed  the  streamlet, 
Spouted  through  the  chinks  below  him, 
Dashed  upon  the  stones  beneath  him,        go 
Spread  serene  and  calm  before  him, 
And  the  sunshine  and  the  shadows 
Fell  in  flecks  and  gleams  upon  him, 
Fell  in  little  shining  patches, 
Through  the  waving,  rustling  branches. 

From  the  bottom  rose  the  beavers, 
Silently  above  the  surface 
Rose  one  head  and  then  another, 


Till  the  pond  seemed  full  of  beavers,    - 
Full  of  black  and  shilling  faces.  , 

To  the  beavers  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake  entreating,  said  in  this  wise: 
'  Very  pleasant  is  your  dwelling, 
O  my  friends  !  and  safe  from  danger; 
Can  you  not,  with  all  your  cunning, 
All  your  wisdom  and  contrivance, 
Change  me,  too,  into  a  beaver  ?  ' 

'  Yes  !  '  replied  Ahmeek,  the  beaver, 
He  the  King  of  all  the  beavers, 
'  Let  yourself  slide  down  among  us,          i 
Down  into  the  tranquil  water.' 

Down  into  the  pond  among  them 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis; 
Black  became  his  shirt  of  deer-skin, 
Black  his  moccasins  and  leggings, 
In  a  broad  black  tail  behind  him 
Spread  his  fox-tails  and  his  fringes; 
He  was  changed  into  a  beaver. 

'Make  me  large,'  said  Pau-Puk-Kcewi 
'Make  me  large  and  make  me  larger,      i 
Larger  than  the  other  beavers.' 
'  Yes,'  the  beaver  chief  responded, 
'  When  our  lodge  below  you  enter, 
In  our  wigwam  we  will  make  you 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others.' 

Thus  into  the  clear,  brown  water 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis: 
Found  the  bottom  covered  over 
With  the  trunks  of  trees  and  branches, 
Hoards  of  food  against  the  winter,  J: 

Piles  and  heaps  against  the  famine; 
Found  the  lodge  with  arching  doorway, 
Leading  into  spacious  chambers. 

Here  they  made  him  large  ami  larger, 
Made  him  largest  of  the  beavers, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others. 
'  You  shall  be  our  ruler,'  said  they; 
'  Chief  and  King  of  all  the  beavers.' 

But  not  long  had  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat  in  state  among  the  beavers,  i; 

When  there  came  a  voice  of  warning 
From  the  watchman  at  his  station 
In  the  water-flags  and  lilies, 
Saying,  '  Here  is  Hiawatha  ! 
Hiawatha  with  his  hunters  ! ' 

Then  they  heard  a  cry  above  them, 
Heard  a  shouting  and  a  tramping, 
Heard  a  crashing  and  a  rushing, 
And  the  water  round  and  o'er  them 
Sank  and  sucked  away  in  eddies,  >. 

And  they  knew  their  dam  was  broken. 

On  the  lodge's  roof  the  hunters 
Leaped,  and  broke  it  all  asunder; 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


199 


Streamed  the  sunshine  through  the  crevice, 
Sprang  the  beavers  through  the  doorway, 
Hid  themselves  in  deeper  water, 
In  the  channel  of  the  streamlet; 
But  the  mighty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could  not  pass  beneath  the  doorway; 
He  was  puffed  with  pride  and  feeding,    150 
He  was  swollen  like  a  bladder. 

Through  the  roof  looked  Hiawatha, 
Cried  aloud,  '  O  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 
Vain  are  all  your  craft  and  cunning, 
Vain  your  manifold  disguises  ! 
Well  I  know  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! ' 
With   their   clubs   they  beat   and  bruised 

him, 

Beat  to  death  poor  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded  him  as  maize  is  pounded, 
Till  his  skull  was  crushed  to  pieces.         160 

Six  tall  hunters,  lithe  and  limber, 
Bore  him  home  on  poles  and  branches, 
Bore  the  body  of  the  beaver; 
But  the  ghost,  the  Jeebi  in  him, 
Thought  and  felt  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Still  lived  on  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

And  it  fluttered,  strove,  and  struggled, 
Waving  hither,  waving  thither, 
As  the  curtains  of  a  wigwam 
Struggle  with  their  thongs  of  deer-skin,  170 
When  the  wintry  wind  is  blowing; 
Till  it  drew  itself  together, 
Till  it  rose  up  from  the  body, 
Till  it  took  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing  into  the  forest. 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Saw  the  figure  ere  it  vanished, 
Saw  the  form  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide  into  the  soft  blue  shadow  180 

Of  the  pine-trees  of  the  forest; 
Toward  the  squares  of  white  beyond  it, 
Toward  an  opening  in  the  forest, 
Like  a  wind  it  rushed  and  panted, 
Bending  all  the  boughs  before  it, 
And  behind  it,  as  the  rain  comes, 
Came  the  steps  of  Hiawatha. 

To  a  lake  with  many  islands 
Came  the  breathless  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where  among  the  water-lilies  I9o 

Pishneknh,  the  brant,  were  sailing; 
Through  the  tufts  of  rushes  floating, 
Steering  through  the  reedy  islands. 
Now  their  broad  black  beaks  they  lifted, 
Now  they  plunged  beneath  the  water, 
Now  they  darkened  in  the  shadow, 
Now  they  brightened  in  the  sunshine. 


'Pishnekuh  ! '  cried  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
'  Pishnekuh  !  my  brothers  !  '  said  he, 
'  Change  me  to  a  brant  with  plumage,      zoc 
With  a  shining  neck  and  feathers, 
Make  me  large,  and  make  me  larger, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others.' 

Straightway  to  a  brant  they  changed  him> 
With  two  huge  and  dusky  pinions, 
With  a  bosom  smooth  and  rounded, 
With  a  bill  like  two  great  paddles, 
Made  him  larger  than  the  others, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  largest, 
Just  as,  shouting  from  the  forest,  210 

On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha. 

Up  they  rose  with  cry  and  clamor, 
With  a  whir  and  beat  of  pinions, 
Rose  up  from  the  reedy  islands, 
From  the  water-flags  and  lilies. 
And  they  said  to  Pau-Puk-Keewis: 
'  In  your  flying,  look  not  downward, 
Take  good  heed  and  look  not  downward, 
Lest  some  strange  mischance  should  hap- 
pen, 
Lest  some  great  mishap  befall  you  ! '       220 

Fast  and  far  they  fled  to  northward, 
Fast  and  far  through  mist  and  sunshine, 
Fed  among  the  moors  and  fen-lands, 
Slept  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

On  the  morrow  as  they  journeyed, 
Buoyed  and  lifted  by  the  South-wind, 
Wafted  onward  by  the  South-wind, 
Blowing  fresh  and  strong  behind  them, 
Rose  a  sound  of  human  voices, 
Rose  a  clamor  from  beneath  them,  230 

From  the  lodges  of  a  village, 
From  the  people  miles  beneath  them. 

For  the  people  of  the  village 
Saw  the  flock  of  brant  with  wonder, 
Saw  the  wings  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping  far  up  in  the  ether, 
Broader  than  two  doorway  curtains. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis  heard  the  shouting, 
Knew  the  voice  of  Hiawatha, 
Knew  the  outcry  of  lagoo,  240 

And,  forgetful  of  the  warning, 
Drew  his  neck  in,  and  looked  downward, 
And  the  wind  that  blew  behind  him 
Caught  his  mighty  fan  of  feathers, 
Sent  him  wheeling,  whirling  downward  I 

All  in  vain  did  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle  to  regain  his  balance  ! 
Whirling  round  and  round  and  downward, 
He  beheld  in  turn  the  village 
And  in  turn  the  flock  above  him,  250 

Saw  the  village  coming  nearer, 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And  the  flock  receding  farther, 

Heard  the  voices  growing  louder, 

Heard  the  shouting  and  the  laughter; 

Saw  no  more  the  flocks  above  him, 

Only  saw  the  earth  beneath  him; 

Dead  out  of  the  empty  heaven, 

Dead  among  the  shouting  people, 

With  a  heavy  sound  and  sullen, 

Fell  the  brant  with  broken  pinions.  260 

But  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 
Still  survived  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took  again  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
And  again  went  rushing  onward, 
Followed  fast  by  Hiawatha, 
Crying:  '  Not  so  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  long  and  rough  the  way  is, 
But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 
But  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  ! '       270 

And  so  near  he  came,  so  near  him, 
That  his  hand  was  stretched  to  seize  him, 
His  right  hand  to  seize  and  hold  him, 
When  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled  and  spun  about  in  circles, 
Fanned  the  air  into  a  whirlwind, 
Danced  the  dust  and  leaves  about  him, 
A.nd  amid  the  whirling  eddies 
Sprang  into  a  hollow  oak-tree, 
Changed  himself  into  a  serpent,  280 

Gliding  out  through  root  and  rubbish. 

With  his  right  hand  Hiawatha 
Smote  amain  the  hollow  oak-tree, 
Rent  it  into  shreds  and  splinters, 
Left  it  lying  there  in  fragments. 
But  in  vain;  for  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once  again  in  human  figure, 
Full  in  sight  ran  on  before  him, 
Sped  away  in  gust  and  whirlwind, 
On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee,  290 

Westward  by  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
Came  unto'the  rocky  headlands, 
To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of  sandstone, 
Looking  over  lake  and  landscape. 

And  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 
He  the  Manito  of  Mountains, 
Opened  wide  his  rocky  doorways,  . 
Opened  wide  his  deep  abysses, 
Giving  Pau-Puk-Keewis  shelter 
In  his  caverns  dark  and  dreary,  300 

Bidding  Pau-Puk-Keewis  welcome 
To  his  gloomy  lodge  of  sandstone. 

There  without  stood  Hiawatha, 
Foiind  the  doorways  closed  against  him, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Smote  great  caverns  in  the  sandstone, 


Cried  aloud  in  tones  of  thunder, 

'  Open  !  I  am  Hiawatha  ! ' 

But  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain 

Opened  not,  and  made  no  answer  310 

From  the  silent  crags  of  sandstone, 

From  the  gloomy  rock  abysses. 

Then  he  raised  his  hands  to  heaven, 
Called  imploring  on  the  tempest, 
Called  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee; 
And  they  came  with  night  and  darkness, 
Sweeping  down  the  Big-Sea-Water 
From  the  distant  Thunder  Mountains; 
And  the  trembling  Pau-Puk-Keewis        320 
Heard  the  footsteps  of  the  thunder, 
Saw  the  red  eyes  of  the  lightning, 
Was  afraid,  and  crouched  and  trembled. 

Then  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Smote  the  doorways  of  the  caverns, 
With  his  war-club  smote  the  doorways, 
Smote  the  jutting  crags  of  sandstone, 
And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee, 
Shouted  down  into  the  caverns, 
Saying,  '  Where  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! '      33o 
And  the  crags  fell,  and  beneath  them 
Dead  among  the  rocky  ruins 
Lay  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
Slain  in  his  own  human  figure. 

Ended  were  his  wild  adventures, 
Ended  were  his  tricks  and  gambols, 
Ended  all  his  craft  and  cunning, 
Ended  all  his  mischief-making, 
All  his  gambling  and  his  dancing,  340 

All  his  wooing  of  the  maidens. 

Then  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Took  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 
Spake  and  said:  « O  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Never  more  in  human  figure 
Shall  you  search  for  new  adventures; 
Never  more  with  jest  and  laughter 
Dance  the  dust  and  leaves  in  whirlwinds; 
But  above  there  in  the  heavens 
You  shall  soar  and  sail  in  circles;  350 

I  will  change  you  to  an  eagle, 
To  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Chief  of  all  the  fowls  with  feathers, 
Chief  of  Hiawatha's  chickens.' 

And  the  name  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers  still  among  the  people, 
Lingers  still  among  the  singers, 
And  among  the  story-tellers; 
And  in  Winter,  when  the  snow-flakes 
Whirl  in  eddies  round  the  lodges,  360 

When  the  wind  in  gusty  tumult 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


O'er  the  smoke-flue  pipes  and  whistles, 
*  There,'  they  cry,  '  comes    Pau-Puk-Kee- 

wis; 

He  is  dancing  through  the  village, 
He  is  gathering  in  his  harvest ! ' 


XVIII 


THE   DEATH    OF    KWASIND 

FAR  and  wide  among  the  nations 
Spread  the  name  and  fame  of  Kwasind; 
No  man  dared  to  strive  with  Kwasind, 
No  man  could  compete  with  Kwasind. 
But  the  mischievous  Puk- Wudjies, 
They  the  envious  Little  People, 
They  the  fairies  and  the  pygmies, 
Plotted  and  conspired  against  him. 

'  If  this  hateful  Kwasind,'  said  they, 
'  If  this  great,  outrageous  fellow  10 

Goes  on  thus  a  little  longer, 
Tearing  everything  he  touches, 
Rending  everything  to  pieces, 
Filling  all  the  world  with  wonder, 
What  becomes  of  the  Puk- Wudjies  ? 
Who  will  care  for  the  Puk-Wudjies  ? 
He  will  tread  us  down  like  mushrooms, 
Drive  us  all  into  the  water, 
Give  our  bodies  to  be  eaten 
By  the  wicked  Nee-ba-naw-baigs,  20 

By  the  Spirits  of  the  water  ! ' 

So  the  angry  Little  People 
All  conspired  against  the  Strong  Man, 
All  conspired  to  murder  Kwasind, 
Yes,  to  rid  the  world  of  Kwasind, 
The  audacious,  overbearing, 
Heartless,  haughty,  dangerous  Kwasind  ! 

Now  this  wondrous  strength  of  Kwasind 
In  his  crown  alone  was  seated; 
In  his  crown  too  was  his  weakness;  30 

There  alone  could  he  be  wounded, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  pierce  him, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  harm  him. 

Even  there  the  only  weapon 
That  could  wound  him,  that  could  slay  him, 
Was  the  seed-cone  of  the  pine-tree, 
Was  the  blue  cone  of  the  fir-tree. 
This  was  Kwasind's  fatal  secret, 
Known  to  no  man  among  mortals; 
But  the  cunning  Little  People,  40 

The  Puk-Wiidjies,  knew  the  secret, 
Knew  the  only  way  to  kill  him. 

So  they  gathered  cones  together, 
Gathered  seed-cones  of  the  pine-tree, 


Gathered  blue  cones  of  the  fir-tree, 
In  the  woods  by  Taquamenaw, 
Brought  them  to  the  river's  margin, 
Heaped  them  in  great  piles  together. 
Where  the  red  rocks  from  the  margin 
Jutting  overhang  the  river.  j« 

There  they  lay  in  wait  for  Kwasind, 
The  malicious  Little  People. 

'T  was  an  afternoon  in  Summer; 
Very  hot  and  still  the  air  was, 
Very  smooth  the  gliding  river, 
Motionless  the  sleeping  shadows: 
Insects  glistened  in  the  sunshine, 
Insects  skated  on  the  water, 
Filled  the  drowsy  air  with  buzzing, 
With  a  far  resounding  war-cry.  6« 

Down  the  river  came  the  Strong  Man, 
In  his  birch  canoe  came  Kwasind, 
Floating  slowly  down  the  current 
Of  the  sluggish  Taquamenaw, 
Very  languid  with  the  weather, 
Very  sleepy  with  the  silence. 

From  the  overhanging  branches, 
From  the  tassels  of  the  birch-trees, 
Soft  the  Spirit  of  Sleep  descended; 
By  his  airy  hosts  surrounded,  70 

His  invisible  attendants, 
Came  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin; 
Like  a  burnished  Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like  a  dragon-fly,  he  hovered 
O'er  the  drowsy  head  of  Kwasind. 

To  his  ear  there  came  a  murmur 
As  of  waves  upor  a  sea-shore, 
As  of  far-off  tumbling  waters, 
As  of  winds  among  the  pine-trees; 
And  he  felt  upon  his  forehead  80 

Blows  of  little  airy  war-clubs, 
Wielded  by  the  slumbrous  legions 
Of  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
As  of  some  one  breathing  on  him. 

At  the  first  blow  of  their  war-clubs, 
Fell  a  drowsiness  on  Kwasind;          ,. 
At  the  second  blow  they  smote  him, 
Motionless  his  paddle  rested; 
At  the  third,  before  his  vision 
Reeled  the  landscape  into  darkness,  90 

Very  sound  asleep  was  Kwasind. 

So  he  floated  down  the  river, 
Like  a  blind  man  seated  upright, 
Floated  down  the  Taquamenaw, 
Underneath  the  trembling  birch-trees, 
Underneath  the  wooded  headlands, 
Underneath  the  war  encampment 
Of  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies. 

There  they  stood,  all  armed  and  waiting, 


202 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Hurled  the  pine-cones  down  upon  him,     100 
Struck  him  011  his  brawny  shoulders, 
On  his  crown  defenceless  struck  him. 
'  Death  to  K  wasind  ! '  was  the  sudden 
War-cry  of  the  Little  People. 

And  he  sideways  swayed  and  tumbled, 
Sideways  fell  into  the  river, 
Plunged  beneath  the  sluggish  water 
Headlong,  as  an  otter  plunges; 
And  the  birch  canoe,  abandoned, 
Drifted  empty  down  the  river,  no 

Bottom  upward  swerved  and  drifted: 
Nothing  more  was  seen  of  Kwasind. 

But  the  memory  of  the  Strong  Man 
Lingered  long  among  the  people, 
And  whenever  through  the  forest 
Raged  and  roared  the  wintry  tempest, 
And  the  branches,  tossed  and  troubled, 
Creaked  and  groaned  and  split  asunder, 
'  Kwasind  ! '  cried  they ;  '  that  is  Kwasind  ! 
He  is  gathering  in  his  fire-wood  ! '  120 


XIX 

THE   GHOSTS 

NEVER  stoops  the  soaring  vulture 

On  his  quarry  in  the  desert, 

On  the  sick  or  wounded  bison, 

But  another  vulture,  watching 

From  his  high  aerial  look-out, 

Sees  the  downward  plunge,  and  follows; 

And  a  third  pursues  the  second, 

Coming  from  the  invisible  ether, 

First  a  speck,  and  then  a  vulture, 

Till  the  air  is  dark  with  pinions.  10 

So  disasters  come  not  singly; 
But  as  if  they  watched  and  waited, 
Scanning  one  another's  motions, 
When  the  first  descends,  the  others 
Follow,  follow,  gathering  flock-wise 
Round  their  victim,  sick  and  wounded, 
First  a  shadow,  then  a  sorrow. 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish. 

Now,  o'er  all  the  dreary  North-land, 
Mighty  Peboan,  the  Winter,  20 

Breathing  on  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
Into  stone  had  changed  their  waters. 
From  his  hair  he  shook  the  snow-flakes, 
Till  the  plains  were  strewn  with  whiteness, 
One  uninterrupted  level, 
As  if,  stooping,  the  Creator 
With  his  hand  had  smoothed  them  over. 

Through  the  forest,  wide  and  wailing, 


Roamed  the  hunter  on  his  snow-shoes; 

In  the  village  worked  the  women,  30 

Pounded  maize,  or  dressed  the  deer-skin; 

And  the  young  men  played  together 

On  the  ice  the  noisy  ball-play, 

On  the  plain  the  dance  of  snow-shoes. 

One  dark  evening,  after  sundown, 
In  her  wigwam  Laughing  Water 
Sat  with  old  Nokomis,  waiting 
For  the  steps  of  Hiawatha 
Homeward  from  the  hunt  returning. 

On  their  faces  gleamed  the  firelight,     40 
Painting  them  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
In  the  eyes  of  old  Nokomis 
Glimmered  like  the  watery  moonlight, 
In  the  eyes  of  Laughing  Water 
Glistened  like  the  sun  in  water; 
And  behind  them  crouched  their  shadows 
In  the  corners  of  the  wigwam, 
And  the  smoke  in  wreaths  above  them 
Climbed  and  crowded  through  the  smoke- 
flue. 

Then  the  curtain  of  the  doorway  So 

From  without  was  slowly  lifted; 
Brighter  glowed  the  fire  a  moment, 
And  a  moment  swerved  the  smoke-wreath 
As  two  women  entered  softly, 
Passed  the  doorway  uninvited, 
Without  word  of  salutation, 
Without  sign  of  recognition, 
Sat  down  in  the  farthest  corner, 
Crouching  low  among  the  shadows. 

From  their  aspect  and  their  garments,  60 
Strangers  seemed  they  in  the  village ; 
Very  pale  and  haggard  were  they, 
As  they  sat  there  sad  and  silent, 
Trembling,  cowering  with  the  shadows. 

Was  it  the  wind  above  the  smoke-flue, 
Muttering  down  into  the  wigwam  ? 
Was  it  the  owl,  the  Koko-koho, 
Hooting  from  the  dismal  forest  ? 
Sure  a  voice  said  in  the  silence: 
'  These  are  corpses  clad  in  garments,         70 
These  are  ghosts  that  come  to  haunt  you, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter  ! ' 

Homeward  now  came  Hiawatha 
From  his  hunting  in  the  forest, 
With  the  snow  upon  his  tresses, 
And  the  red  deer  on  his  shoulders. 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Down  he  threw  his  lifeless  burden; 
Nobler,  handsomer  she  thought  him,         80 
Than  when  first  he  came  to  woo  her, 
First  threw  down  the  deer  before  her. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


203 


As  a  token  of  his  wishes, 
As  a  promise  of  the  future. 

Then  he  turned  and  saw  the  strangers, 
Cowering,  crouching  with  the  shadows; 
Said  within  himself,  '  Who  are  they  ? 
What  strange  guests  has  Minnehaha  ?  ' 
But  he  questioned  not  the  strangers, 
Only  spake  to  bid  them  welcome  90 

To  his  lodge,  his  food,  his  fireside. 

When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 
And  the  deer  had  been  divided, 
Both  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Springing  from  among  the  shadows, 
Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions, 
Seized  the  white  fat  of  the  roebuck, 
Set  apart  for  Laughing  Water, 
For  the  wife  of  Hiawatha; 
Without  asking,  without  thanking,  100 

Eagerly  devoured  the  morsels, 
Flitted  back  among  the  shadows 
In  the  corner  of  the  wigwam. 

Not  a  word  spake  Hiawatha, 
Not  a  motion  made  Nokomis, 
Not  a  gesture  Laughing  Water; 
Not  a  change  came  o'er  their  features; 
Only  Minnehaha  softly 
Whispered,  saying,  'They  are  famished; 
Let  them  do  what  best  delights  them;     no 
Let  them  eat,  for  they  are  famished.' 

Many  a  daylight  dawned  and  darkened, 
Many  a  night  shook  off  the  daylight 
As  the  pine  shakes  off  the  snow-flakes 
From  the  midnight  of  its  branches; 
Day  by  day  the  guests  unmoving 
Sat  there  silent  in  the  wigwam; 
But  by  night,  in  storm  or  starlight, 
Forth  they  went  into  the  forest, 
Bringing  fire-wood  to  the  wigwam,  120 

Bringing  pine-cones  for  the  burning, 
Always  sad  and  always  silent. 

And  whenever  Hiawatha 
Came  from  fishing  or  from  hunting, 
When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 
And  the  food  had  been  divided, 
Gliding  from  their  darksome  corner, 
Came  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions 
Set  aside  for  Laughing  Water,  130 

And  without  rebuke  or  question 
Flitted  back  among  the  shadows. 

Never  once  had  Hiawatha 
By  a  word  or  look  reproved  them; 
Never  once  had  old  Nokomis 
Made  a  gesture  of  impatience ; 
Never  once  had  Laughing  Water 


Shown  resentment  at  the  outrage. 

All  had  they  endured  in  silence, 

That  the  rights  of  guest  and  stranger,     140 

That  the  virtue  of  free-giving, 

By  a  look  might  not  be  lessened, 

By  a  word  might  not  be  broken. 

Once  at  midnight  Hiawatha, 
Ever  wakeful,  ever  watchful, 
In  the  wigwam,  dimly  lighted 
By  the  brands  that  still  were  burning, 
By  the  glimmering,  flickering  firelight, 
Heard  a  sighing,  oft  repeated, 
Heard  a  sobbing,  as  of  sorrow.  150 

From  his  couch  rose  Hiawatha, 
From  his  shaggy  hides  of  bison, 
Pushed  aside  the  deer-skin  curtain, 
Saw  the  pallid  guests,  the  shadows, 
Sitting  upright  on  their  couches, 
Weeping  in  the  silent  midnight. 

And  he  said:  '  O  guests  !  why  is  it 
That  your  hearts  are  so  afflicted, 
That  you  sob  so  in  the  midnight  ? 
Has  perchance  the  old  Nokomis,  i<s< 

Has  my  wife,  my  Minnehaha, 
Wronged  or  grieved  you  by  unkindness, 
Failed  in  hospitable  duties  ?  ' 

Then  the  shadows  ceased  from  weeping, 
Ceased  from  sobbing  and  lamenting, 
And  they  said,  with  gentle  voices: 
'  We  are  ghosts  of  the  departed, 
Souls  of  those  who  once  were  with  you. 
From  the  realms  of  Chibiabos 
Hither  have  we  come  to  try  you,  i7& 

Hither  have  we-  come  to  warn  you. 

'  Cries  of  grief  and  lamentation 
Reach  us  in  the  Blessed  Islands; 
Cries  of  anguish  from  the  living^ 
Calling  back  their  friends  departed, 
Sadden  us  with  useless  sorrow. 
Therefore  have  we  come  to  try  you; 
No  one  knows  us,  no  one  heeds  us. 
We  are  but  a  burden  to  you, 
And  we  see  that  the  departed  180 

Have  no  place  among  the  living. 

«  Think  of  this,  O  Hiawatha  ! 

That  henceforward  and  forever 
They  no  more  with  lamentations 
Sadden  the  souls  of  the  departed 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 

'  Do  not  lay  such  heavy  burdens 
In  the  graves  of  those  you  bury, 
Not  such  weight  of  furs  and  wampum,    ige 
Not  such  weight  of  pots  and  kettles, 
For  the  spirits  faint  beneath  them. 


204 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Only  give  them  food  to  carry, 
Only  give  them  fire  to  light  them. 

'  Four  days  is  the  spirit's  journey 
To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows, 
Four  its  lonely  night  encampments; 
Four  times  must  their  fires  be  lighted. 
Therefore,  when  the  dead  are  buried, 
Let  a  fire,  as  night  approaches,  200 

Four  times  on  the  grave  be  kindled, 
That  the  soul  upon  its  journey 
May  not  lack  the  cheerful  firelight, 
May  not  grope  about  in  darkness. 

'  Farewell,  noble  Hiawatha  ! 
We  have  put  you  to  the  trial, 
To  the  proof  have  put  your  patience, 
By  the  insult  of  our  presence, 
By  the  outrage  of  our  actions. 
We  have  found  you  great  and  noble.        210 
Fail  not  in  the  greater  trial, 
Faint  not  in  the  harder  struggle.' 

When     they    ceased,    a    sudden    dark- 
ness 

Fell  and  filled  the  silent  wigwam. 
Hiawatha  heard  a  rustle 
As  of  garments  trailing  by  him, 
Heard  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 
Lifted  by  a  hand  he  saw  not, 
Felt  the  cold  breath  of  the  night  air, 
For  a  moment  saw  the  starlight;  220 

But  he  saw  the  ghosts  no  longer, 
Saw  no  more  the  wandering  spirits 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 


XX 

THE  FAMINE 

OH,  the  long  and  dreary  Winter  ! 
Oh,  the  cold  and  cruel  Winter  ! 
Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river, 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape, 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 

Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 
.  In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 


Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

Oh  the  famine  and  the  fever  ! 
Oh  the  wasting  of  the  famine  ! 
Oh  the  blasting  of  the  fever  ! 
Oh  the  wailing  of  the  children  ! 
Oh  the  anguish  of  the  women  ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them, 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 
And  the  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them  ! 

Into  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent  3o 

As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy, 
Waited  not  to  be  invited, 
Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway, 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water; 
Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 

And  the  foremost  said:  '  Behold  me  ! 
I  am  Famine,  Bukadawin  ! ' 
And  the  other  said:  '  Behold  me  !  40 

I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin  ! ' 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the'words  they  uttered, 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence, 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest  50 

Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha; 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 
In  his  face  a  stony  firmness; 
On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunt- 
ing, 

With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest  60 

On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

'  Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty  ! ' 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
'  Give  your  children  food,  O  father  ! 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish  ! 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha  ! ' 

Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant  ?0 


: 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


205 


Rang  that  cry  of  desolation, 
But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 
Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 
'  Minnehaha  !  Minnehaha  ! ' 

All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest, 
Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets, 
In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 
Of  that  ne'er  forgotten  Summer,  80 

He   had    brought   his   young   wife   home- 
ward 

From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs; 
When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 
And  the  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 
And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 
'  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband  !  ' 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 
With   those   gloomy  guests   that  watched 
her,  90 

With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 
She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 
She,  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

4  Hark  ! '  she  said;  '  I  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing, 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a  distance  ! ' 
'  No,  my  child  ! '  said  old  Nokomis, 
'  'T  is  the  night-wind  in  the  pine-trees  ! ' 

'  Look  !  '  she  said ;  '  I  see  «my  father    100 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 
Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! ' 
'  No,  my  child  ! '  said  old  Nokomis, 
'  'T  is  the  smoke,  that  waves  and  beckons  !' 

'  Ah  ! '  said  she,  '  the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness  ! 
Hiawatha  !  Hiawatha  ! '  no 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  amid  the  forest, 
Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
'  Hiawatha  !  Hiawatha  ! ' 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless, 
Under  snow-encumbered  branches, 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha,  12° 

Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted, 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing: 
1  Wahonowin  !  Wahonowin  ' 


Would  that  I  had  perished  for  you, 
Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are  ! 
Wahonowin  !  Wahonowin  ! ' 

And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam, 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha  ijo 

Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him, 
And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a  cry  of  anguish, 
That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered, 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then    he    sat  down,   still   and    speech- 
less, 

On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  tliose  willing  feet,  that  never  140 

More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there, 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome,  150 

Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine, 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine; 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a  fire  was  lighted, 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  doorway  Hiawatha  160 

Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 
From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
Stood  and  watched  it  at  the  doorway, 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguished, 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 
'  Farewell !  '  said  he,  '  Minnehaha  ! 
Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  Water  ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you,  f/< 

All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you  ! 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 


206 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter  ! ; 


XXI 


THE  WHITE  MAN'S  FOOT 

IN  his  lodge  beside  a  river, 

Close  beside  a  frozen  river, 

Sat  an  old  man,  sad  and  lonely. 

White  his  hair  was  as  a  snow-drift; 

Dull  and  low  his  fire  was  burning, 

And  the  old  man  shook  and  trembled, 

Folded  in  his  Waubewyon, 

In  his  tattered  white-skin-wrapper, 

Hearing  nothing  but  the  tempest 

As  it  roared  along  the  forest,  10 

Seeing  nothing  but  the  snow-storm, 

As  it  whirled  and  hissed  and  drifted. 

All  the  coals  were  white  with  ashes, 
And  the  fire  was  slowly  dying, 
As  a  young  man,  walking  lightly, 
At  the  open  doorway  entered. 
Red  with  blood  of  youth  his  cheeks  were, 
Soft  his  eyes,  as  stars  in  Spring-time, 
Bound  his  forehead  was  with  grasses ; 
Bound  and  plumed  with  scented  grasses,  20 
On  his  lips  a  smile  of  beauty, 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sunshine, 
In  his  hand  a  bunch  of  blossoms 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sweetness. 

'  Ah,  my  son  ! '  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
'  Happy  are  my  eyes  to  see  you. 
Sit  here  on  the  mat  beside  me, 
Sit  here  by  the  dying  embers, 
Let  us  pass  the  night  together, 
Tell  me  of  your  strange  adventures,          30 
Of  the  lands  where  you  have  travelled; 


I  will  tell  you  of  my  pr 

Of  my  many  deeds  of  wonder.' 

From  his  pouch  he  drew  his  peace-pipe, 
Very  old  and  strangely  fashioned; 
Made  of  red  stone  was  the  pipe-head, 
And  the  stem  a  reed  with  feathers; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
Placed  a  burning  coal  upon  it, 
Gave  it  to  his  guest,  the  stranger,  4. 

And  began  to  speak  in  this  wise: 
'  When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Motionless  are  all  the  rivers, 
Hard  as  stone  becomes  the  water! ' 

And  the  young  man  answered,  smiling: 


'  When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Flowers  spring  up  o'er  all  the  meadows, 
Singing,  onward  rush  the  rivers  ! '  50 

'  When  I  shake  my  hoary  tresses,' 
Said  the  old  man  darkly  frowning, 
'  All  the  land  with  snow  is  covered ; 
All  the  leaves  from  all  the  branches 
Fall  and  fade  and  die  and  wither, 
For  I  breathe,  and  lo  !  they  are  not. 
From  the  waters  and  the  marshes 
Rise  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 
Fly  away  to  distant  regions, 
For  I  speak,  and  lo  !  they  are  not.  60 

And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest 
Hide  themselves  in  holes  and  caverns, 
And  the  earth  becomes  as  flintstone  ! ' 

'  When  I  shake  my  flowing  ringlets,' 
Said  the  young  man,  softly  laughing, 
1  Showers  of  rain  fall  warm  and  welcome, 
Plants  lift  up  their  heads  rejoicing, 
Back  into  their  lakes  and  marshes 
Come  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron,          70 
Homeward  shoots  the  arrowy  swallow,' 
Sing  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 
And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  meadows  wave  with  blossoms, 
All  the  woodlands  ring  with  music, 
All  the  trees  are  dark  with  foliage  ! ' 

While  they  spake,  the  night  departed: 
From  the  distant  realms  of  Wabun, 
From  his  shining  lodge  of  silver, 
Like  a  warrior  robed  and  painted,  80 

Came  the  sun,  and  said,  '  Behold  me 
Gheezis,  the  great  sun,  behold  me  ! ' 

Then  the  old  man's  tongue  was  speechless 
And  the  air  grew  warm  and  pleasant, 
And  upon  the  wigwam  sweetly 
Sang  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 
And  the  stream  began  to  murmur, 
And  a  scent  of  growing  grasses 
Through  the  lodge  was  gently  wafted. 

And  Segwun,  the  youthful  stranger,      90 
More  distinctly  in  the  daylight 
Saw  the  icy  face  before  him; 
It  was  Peboan,  the  Winter  ! 

From  his  eyes  the  tears  were  flowing, 
As  from  melting  lakes  the  streamlets, 
And  his  body  shrunk  and  dwindled 
As  the  shouting  sun  ascended, 
Till  into  the  air  it  faded, 
Till  into  the  ground  it  vanished. 
And  the  young  man  saw  before  him,        100 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  the  wigwam, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


207 


Where  the  fire  had  smoked  and  smouldered, 
Saw  the  earliest  flower  of  Spring-time, 
Saw  the  Beauty  of  the  Spring-time, 
Saw  the  Miskodeed  in  blossom. 

Thus  it  was  that  in  the  North-land 
After  that  unheard-of  coldness, 
That  intolerable  Winter, 
Came  the  Spring  with  all  its  splendor, 
All  its  birds  and  all  its  blossoms,  no 

All  its  flowers  and  leaves  and  grasses. 

Sailing  on  the  wind  to  northward, 
Flying  in  great  flocks,  like  arrows, 
Like  huge  arrows  shot  through  heaven, 
Passed  the  swan,  the  Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking  almost  as  a  man  speaks; 
And  in  long  lines  waving,  bending 
Like  a  bow-string  snapped  asunder, 
Came  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa; 
And  in  pairs,  or  singly  flying,  120 

Mahng  the  loon,  with  clangorous  pinions, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa. 

In  the  thickets  and  the  meadows 
Piped  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
On  the  summit  of  the  lodges 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
In  the  covert  of  the  pine-trees 
Cooed  the  pigeon,  the  Omemee; 
And  the  sorrowing  Hiawatha,  130 

Speechless  in  his  infinite  sorrow, 
Heard  their  voices  calling  to  him, 
Went  forth  from  his  gloomy  doorway, 
Stood  and  gazed  into  the  heaven, 
Gazed  upon  the  earth  and  waters. 

From  his  wanderings  far  to  eastward, 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun, 
Homeward  now  returned  lagoo, 
The  great  traveller,  the  great  boaster,     140 
Full  of  new  and  strange  adventures, 
Marvels  many  and  many  wonders. 

And  the  people  of  the  village 
Listened  to  him  as  he  told  them 
Of  his  marvellous  adventures, 
Laughing  answered  him  in  this  wise: 
'  Ugh  !  it  is  indeed  lagoo  ! 
No  one  else  beholds  such  wonders  ! ' 

He  had  seen,  he  said,  a  water 
Bigger  than  the  Big-Sea-Water,  150 

Broader  than  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
Bitter  so  that  none  could  drink  it ! 
At  each  other  looked  the  warriors, 
Looked  the  women  at  each  other, 
Smiled,  and  said,  '  It  cannot  be  so  ! 
Kaw  !  '  they  said,  « it  cannot  be  so  ! ' 


'  O'er  it,'  said  he,  '  o'er  this  water 
Came  a  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
A  canoe  with  wings  came  flying, 
Bigger  than  a  grove  of  pine-trees,  i6c 

Taller  than  the  tallest  tree-tops  ! ' 
And  the  old  men  and  the  women 
Looked  and  tittered  at  each  other; 
'  Kaw  ! '  they  said,  '  we  don't  believe  it ! ' 

From  its  mouth,  he  said,  to  greet  him, 
Came  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Came  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  aloiid  at  poor  lagoo; 
'  Kaw  ! '   they  said,  '  what   tales  you  tell 


'  In  it,'  said  he,  '  came  a  people, 
In  the  great  canoe  with  pinions 
Came,  he  said,  a  hundred  warriors; 
Painted  white  were  all  their  faces 
And  with  hair  their  chins  were  covered  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  and  shouted  in  derision, 
Like  the  ravens  on  the  tree-tops, 
Like  the  crows  upon  the  hemlocks. 
'  Kaw  ! '    they    said,    '  what   lies   you 


tell 


us! 


Do  not  think  that  we  believe  them  ! ' 

Only  Hiawatha  laughed  not, 
But  he  gravely  spake  and  answered 
To  their  jeering  and  their  jesting: 
'  True  is  all  lagoo  tells  us ; 
I  have  seen  it  in  a  vision, 
Seen  the  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
Seen  the  people  with  white  faces, 
Seen  the  coming  of  this  bearded 
People  of  the  wooden  vessel  ig< 

From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 
From  the  shining  lands  of  Wabun. 

•  Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Sends  them  hither  on  his  errand, 
Sends  them  to  us  with  his  message. 
Wheresoe'er  they  move,  before  them 
Swarms  the  stinging  fly,  the  Aluno. 
Swarms  the  bee,  the  honey-maker; 
Wheresoe'er  they  tread,  beneath  them    2™ 
Springs  a  flower  unknown  among  us, 
Springs  the  White-man's  Foot  \n  blossom. 

'  Let  us  welcome,  then,  the  strangers, 
Hail  them  as  our  friends  and  brothers, 
And  the  heart's  right  hand  of  friendship 
Give  them  when  they  come  to  see  us. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
Said  this  to  me  in  my  vision. 

'  I  beheld,  too,  in  that  vision 


208 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


All  the  secrets  of  the  future,  a 

Of  the  distant  days  that  shall  be. 
I  beheld  the  westward  marches 
Of  the  unknown,  crowded  nations. 
All  the  laud  was  full  of  people, 
Restless,  struggling,  toiling,  striving, 
Speaking  many  tongues,  yet  feeling 
But  one  heart-beat  in  their  bosoms. 
In  the  woodlands  rang  their  axes, 
Smoked  their  towns  in  all  the  valleys, 
Over  all  the  lakes  and  rivers  a 

Rushed  their  great  canoes  of  thunder. 

'  Then  a  darker,  drearier  vision 
Passed  before  me,  vague  and  cloud-like; 
I  beheld  our  nation  scattered, 
All  forgetful  of  my  counsels, 
Weakened,  warring  with  each  other: 
Saw  the  remnants  of  our  people 
Sweeping  westward,  wild  and  woful, 
Like  the  cloud-rack  of  a  tempest, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  of  Autumn  ! '   2 


XXII 
HIAWATHA'S  DEPARTURE 

BY  the  shore  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
In  the  pleasant  summer  morning, 
Hiawatha  stood  and  waited. 
All  the  air  was  full  of  freshness, 
All  the  earth  was  bright  and  joyous, 
And  before  him,  through  the  sunshine, 
Westward  toward  the  neighboring  forest 
Passed  in  golden  swarms  the  Ahmo, 
Passed  the  bees,  the  honey-makers, 
Burning,  singing  in  the  sunshine. 

Bright  above  him  shone  the  heavens, 
Level  spread  the  lake  before  him; 
From  its  bosom  leaped  the  sturgeon, 
Sparkling,  flashing  in  the  sunshine; 
On  its  margin  the  great  forest 
Stood  reflected  in  the  water, 
Every  tree-top  had  its  shadow, 
Motionless  beneath  the  water.  : 

From  the  brow  of  Hiawatha 
Gone  was  every  trace  of  sorrow, 
As  the  fog  from  off  the  water, 
As  the  mist  from  off  the  meadow. 
With  a  smile  of  joy  and  triumph, 
With  a  look  of  exultation, 
As  of  one  who  in  a  vision 
Sees  what  is  to  be,  but  is  not, 
Stood  and  waited  Hiawatha. 


Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were  lifted,1  30 
Both  the  palms  spread  out  against  it, 
And  between  the  parted  fingers 
Fell  the  sunshine  on  his  features, 
Flecked  with  light  his  naked  shoulders, 
As  it  falls  and  flecks  an  oak-tree 
Through  the  rifted  leaves  and  branches. 

O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Something  in  the  hazy  distance, 
Something  in  the  mists  of  morning, 
Loomed  and  lifted  from  the  water,  40 

Now  seemed  floating,  now  seemed  flying, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

Was  it  Shingebis  the  diver  ? 
Or  the  pelican,  the  Shada  ? 
Or  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah  ? 
Or  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa, 
With  the  water  dripping,  flashing. 
From  its  glossy  neck  and  feathers  ? 

It  was  neither  goose  nor  diver, 
Neither  pelican  nor  heron,  50 

O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Through  the  shining  mist  of  morning, 
But  a  birch  canoe  with  paddles, 
Rising,  sinking  on  the  water, 
Dripping,  flashing  in  the  sunshine ; 
And  within  it  came  a  people 
From  the  distant  land  of  Wabun, 
From  the  farthest  realms  of  morning 
Came  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet, 
He  the  Priest  of  Prayer,  the  Pale-face,    60 
WTith  his  guides  and  his  companions. 

And  the  noble  Hiawatha, 
With  his  hands  aloft  extended, 
Held  aloft  in  sign  of  welcome, 
Waited,  full  of  exultation,  •   ' 
Till  the  birch  canoe  with  paddles 
Grated  on  the  shining  pebbles, 
Stranded  on  the  sandy  margin, 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
With  the  cross  upon  his  bosom,  30 

Landed  on  the  sandy  margin. 

Then  the  joyous  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud  and  spake  in  this  wise: 
'  Beautiful  is  the  sun,  O  strangers, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 
All  our  town  in  peace  awaits  you, 
All  our  doors  stand  open  for  you; 
You  shall  enter  all  our  wigwams, 
For  the  heart's  right  hand  we  give  you. 

'  Never  bloomed  the  earth  so  gayly,  80 
Never  shone  the  sun  so  brightly, 

1  In  this  manner,  and  with  such  salutations,  was  Fa- 
ther Marquette  received  by  the  Illinois.  See  his  Voy- 
ages et  Decouvertes,  section  v.  (LONGFELLOW.') 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


209 


As  to-day  they  shine  and  blossom 

When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 

Never  was  our  lake  so  tranquil, 

Nor  so  free  from  rocks  and  sand-bars; 

For  your  birch  canoe  in  passing 

Has  removed  both  rock  and  sand-bar. 

'  Never  before  had  our  tobacco 
Such  a  sweet  and  pleasant  flavor, 
Never  the  broad  leaves  of  our  cornfields  9o 
Were  so  beautiful  to  look  on, 
As  they  seem  to  us  this  morning, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  ' 

And   the    Black-Robe    chief    made    an- 
swer, 

Stammered  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar: 
'  Peace  be  with  you,  Hiawatha, 
Peace  be  with  you  and  your  people, 
Peace  of  prayer,  and  peace  of  pardon, 
Peace  of  Christ,  and  joy  of  Mary  ! '          100 

Then  the  generous  Hiawatha 
Led  the  strangers  to  his  wigwam, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  bison, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  ermine, 
And  the  careful  old  Nokomis 
Brought  them  food  in  bowls  of  basswood, 
Water  brought  in  birchen  dippers, 
And  the  calumet,  the  peace-pipe, 
Filled  and  lighted  for  their  smoking. 

All  the  old  men  of  the  village,  no 

All  the  warriors  of  the  nation, 
All  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets, 
The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 
And  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
Came  to  bid  the  strangers  welcome; 
'  It  is  well,'  they  said,  '  O  brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  ' 

In  a  circle  round  the  doorway, 
With  their  pipes  they  sat  in  silence, 
Waiting  to  behold  the  strangers,  120 

Waiting  to  receive  their  message ; 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
From  the  wigwam  came  to  greet  them, 
Stammering  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar; 
'  It  is  well,'  they"  said,  '  O  brother, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! ' 

Then  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet, 
Told  his  message  to  the  people, 
Told  the  purport  of  his  mission,  130 

Told  them  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
And  her  blessed  Son,  the  Saviour, 
How  in  distant  lands  and  ages 
He  had  lived  on  earth  as  we  do; 
How  he  fasted,  prayed,  and  labored; 


How  the  Jews,  the  tribe  accursed, 
Mocked  him,  scourged  him,  crucified  him; 
How  he  rose  from  where  they  laid  him, 
Walked  again  with  his  disciples, 
And  ascended  into  heaven.  140 

And  the  chiefs  made  answer,  saying: 
'  We  have  listened  to  your  message, 
We  have  heard  your  words  of  wisdom, 
We  will  think  on  what  you  tell  us. 
It  is  well  for  us,  O  brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !  ' 
Then  they  rose  up  and  departed 
Each  one  homeward  to  his  wigwam, 
To  the  young  men  and  the  women 
Told  the  story  of  the  strangers  150 

Whom     the    Master    of     Life    had    sent 

them 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

Heavy  with  the  heat  and  silence 
Grew  the  afternoon  of  summer; 
With  a  drowsy  sound  the  forest 
Whispered  round  the  sultry  wigwam, 
With  a  sound  of  sleep  the  water 
Rippled  on  the  beach  below  it; 
From  the  cornfields  shrill  and  ceaseless 
Sang  the  grasshopper,  Pah-puk-keena;    160 
And  the  guests  of  Hiawatha, 
Weary  with  the  heat  of  Summer, 
Slumbered  in  the  sultry  wigwam. 

Slowly  o'er  the  simmering  landscape 
Fell  the  evening's  dusk  and  coolness, 
And  the  long  and  level  sunbeams 
Shot  their  spears  into  the  forest, 
Breaking  through  its  shields  of  shadow, 
Rushed  into  each  secret  ambush, 
Searched  each  thicket,  dingle,  hollow;     170 
Still  the  guests  of  Hiawatha 
Slumbered  in  the  silent  wigwam. 

From  his  place  rose  Hiawatha, 
Bade  farewell  to  old  Nokomis, 
Spake  in  whispers,  spake  in  this  wise, 
Did    not    wake    the    guests,    that    slum- 
bered: 

'  I  am  going,  O  Nokomis, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey, 
To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind,  180 

Of  the  Northwesfc-Wind,  Keewaydin. 
But  these  guests  I  leave  behind  me, 
In  your  watch  and  ward  I  leave  them; 
See  that  never  harm  comes  near  them, 
See  that  never  fear  molests  them, 
Never  danger  nor  suspicion, 
Never  want  of  food  or  shelter, 
In  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha ! ' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Forth  into  the  village  went  he, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  warriors,  190 

Bade  farewell  to  all  the  young  men, 
Spake  persuading,  spake  in  this  wise: 

'  I  am  going,  0  my  people, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey ; 
Many  moons  and  many  winters 
Will  have  come,  and  will  have  vanished* 
Ere  I  come  again  to  see  you. 
But  my  guests  I  leave  behind  me ; 
Listen  to  their  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  truth  they  tell  you,  aoo 

For  the  Master  of  Life  has  sent  them 
From  the  land  of  light  and  morning  ! ' 

On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha, 
Turned  and  waved  his  hand  at  parting; 
On  the  clear  and  luminous  water 
Launched  his  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 
From  the  pebbles  of  the  margin 
Shoved  it  forth  into  the  water; 
Whispered  to  it,  '  Westward  !  westward  ! ' 
,  And  with  speed  it  darted  forward.  210 

And  the  evening  sun  descending 
Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness, 
Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a  prairie, 
Left  upon  the  level  water 
One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendor, 
Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a  river, 
Westward,  westward,  Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset, 


Sailed  into  the  purple  vapors, 

Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening.  jj( 

And  the  people  from  the  margin 
Watched  him  floating,  rising,  sinking, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  seemed  lifted 
High  into  that  sea  of  splendor, 
Till  it  sank  into  the  vapors 
Like  the  new  moon  slowly,  slowly 
Sinking  in  the  purple  distance. 

And  they  said,  '  Farewell  forever  ! ' 
Said,  '  Farewell,  O  Hiawatha  ! ' 
And  the  forests,  dark  and  lonely,  230 

Moved  through  all  their  depths  of  darkness. 
Sighed,  « Farewell,  O  Hiawatha  ! ' 
And  the  waves  upon  the  margin 
Rising,  rippling  on  the  pebbles, 
Sobbed,  '  Farewell,  O  Hiawatha  ! ' 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  haunts  among  the  fen  lands, 
Screamed,  <  Farewell,  O  Hiawatha ! ' 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha  the  Beloved,  2^ 

In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
In  the  purple  mists  of  evening, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  Northwest-Wind,  Keewaydin, 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter  ! 
June  25,  1854-Mar.  21,  1855.  Nov.  1855. 


MY  LOST  YOUTH 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town  1 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still: 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.' 

1  From  Longfellow's  Journal:  March  29,  1855  —  At 
night  aa  I  lie  in  bed,  a  poem  conies  into  my  mind,  — 
a  memory  of  Portland,  —  my  native  town,  the  city  by 


March  30  —  Wrote  the  poem  ;  and  am  rather  pleased 
with  it,  and  with  the  bringing  in  of  the  two  lines  of  the 
old  Lapland  song, 

A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  "thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts. 

(Life,  vol.  ii.,p.  284.) 


I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees,    if 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still: 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.' 

I  remember  the   black   wharves   and   the 

slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free;  zc 

And  the  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still: 
1 A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.' 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar,       30 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 

(And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still: 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.' 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away,1 

How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay 
Where  they  in  battle  died.  4, 

EAnd  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill: 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.' 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath   sound,  as   of 

doves 

In  quiet  neighborhoods.  50 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still: 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.' 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song         60 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still: 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.' 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak; 
There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die; 

1  This  was  the  engagement  between  the  Enterprise 
and  Boxer  off  the  harbor  of  Portland,  in  which  both 
captains  were  slain.  They  were  buried  side  by  side  in 
the  cemetery  on  Mount  joy.  (LONGFELLOW.) 

The  fight  took  place  in  1813.  The  Enterprise  was  an 
American  brig,  the  Boxer,  an  English  one.  The  fight, 
which  could  be  seen  from  the  shore,  lasted  for  three 
quarters  of  an  hour,  when  the  Enterprise  came  into  the 
harbor,  bringing  her  captive  with  her.  (Cambridge 
Edition.) 


There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong 

heart  weak, 

And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill:  70 

'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.' 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well- 
known  street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still: 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will,          80 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.' 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair,2 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still: 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.'  gc 

185?  (1858.) 


THE   FIFTIETH    BIRTHDAY  OF 
AGASSIZ8 

MAY  28,  1857 

IT  was  fifty  years  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 

A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying:  <  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee.' 

"-  See  the  Life,  vol.  i,  p.  25. 

»  A  dinner  was  given  to  Agassiz  on  his  fiftieth  birth- 
day, at  which  Longfellow  presided,  and  poems  were 
read  by  Longfellow,  Holmes,  and  Lowell. 

See  Longfellow's  'Noel,'  and  "Three  Friends  of 
Mine,'  Lowell's  '  Agassiz,'  Whittier's  '  The  Prayer  of 
Agassiz,'  Holmes's  '  A  Farewell  to  Agassiz '  and  «  At  the 
Saturday  Club.'  and  T.  W.  Parsons's  Sonnet,  '  Agassiz.' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


'  Come,  wander  with  me,'  she  said, 

'  Into  regions  yet  untrod;  10 

And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God.' 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale.  20 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child,- 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold ; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  '  Hark  ! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn;         30 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 

And  my  boy  does  not  return  ! ' 
1857.  (1858.) 

DAYBREAK 

A  WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  '  O  mists,  make  room  for  me.' 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  '  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone.' 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  '  Awake  !  it  is  the  day.' 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  '  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out ! ' 

•  It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  '  O  bird,  awake  and  sing.'      10 

And  o'er  the  farms,  '  O  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow;  the  day  is  near.'  . 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

'  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn.' 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
« Awake,  O  bell !  proclaim  the  hour.' 


It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  '  Not  yet !  in  quiet  lie.' 
1857.  (1858.) 

SANTA   FILOMENA1 

WHENE'ER  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 

Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 

Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs,  \o 

And  by  their  overflow 

Raise  us  from  what  is  low  ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 
In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 

The  cheerless  corridors, 

The  cold  and  stony  floors.  20 

Lo  !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 

Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 

Upon  the  darkening  walls. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly,  so 

The  vision  came  and  went, 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 

That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 

From  portals  of  the  past. 

1  For  the  legend,  see  Mrs.  Jameson's  Legendary  Art 
(ii,  298).  The  modern  application  you  will  not  miss. 
In  Italian,  one  may  say  Filomela  or  Filomena. 


The  'modern  application'   is  to  Florence  Nightir 
gale. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


2I3 


A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  laud, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 


Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear, 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomeua  bore. 
1857.  1857. 


THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES   STANDISH 


MILES    STANDISH 

IN  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the 

land  of  the  Pilgrims, 
To  and  fro  in  a  room  of   his  simple  and 

primitive  dwelling, 

Clad  in  doublet  and  hose,  and  boots  of  Cor- 
dovan leather, 
Strode,  with  a  martial  air,  Miles  Standish 

the  Puritan  Captain. 
Buried   in   thought   he    seemed,   with   his 

hands  behind  him,  and  pausing 
Ever   and   anon   to   behold   his   glittering 

weapons  of  warfare, 
Hanging  in  shining  array  along  the  walls 

of  the  chamber,  — 
Cutlass  and  corselet  of  steel,  and  his  trusty 

sword  of  Damascus, 
Curved  at  the  point  and  inscribed  with  its 

mystical  Arabic  sentence, 
While  underneath,  in  a  corner,  were  fowl- 
ing-piece, musket,  and  matchlock.  10 
Short  of  stature  he  was,  but  strongly  built 

and  athletic, 
Broad  in  the  shoulders,  deep-chested,  with 

muscles  and  sinews  of  iron; 
Brown  as  a  nut  was  his  face,  but  bis  russet 

beard  was  already 
Flaked  with   patches   of   snow,  as  hedges 

sometimes  in  November. 
Near  him  was  seated  John  Alden,  his  friend 

and  household  companion, 
Writing  with  diligent  speed  at  a  table  of 

pine  by  the  window; 
Fair-haired,  azure-eyed,  with  delicate  Saxon 

complexion, 
Having   the   dew   of   his   youth,   and   the 

beauty  thereof,  as  the  captives 

1  Priscilla's  reply  to  John  Alden  was  a  well-known 
tradition  before  Longfellow  took  up  the  story.  Long- 
fellow himself,  and  also  the  poet  Bryant,  were  desoend- 
nuts  of  John  and  Priscilla  Alden.  For  the  details  of 
,-olomal  life,  Longfellow  followed  especially  Elliott's 
History  of  New  England,  which  he  read  in  1857.  (Life, 
vol.  ii,  pp.  328-329.) 


Whom  Saint  Gregory  saw,  and  exclaimed, 
'  Not  Angles,  but  Angels.' 

Youngest  of  all  was  he  of  the  men  who 
came  in  the  Mayflower.  2. 

Suddenly  breaking  the  silence,  the  dili- 
gent scribe  interrupting, 

Spake,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  Miles 
Standish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth. 

'  Look  at  these  arms,'  he  said,  '  the  war- 
like weapons  that  hang  here 

Burnished  and  bright  and  clean,  as  if  for 
parade  or  inspection ! 

This  is  the  sword  of  Damascus  I  fought 
with  in  Flanders  ;  this  breastplate, 

Well  I  remember  the  day  !  once  saved  my 
life  in  a  skirmish; 

Here  in  front  you  can  see  the  very  dint  of 
the  bullet 

Fired  point-blank  at  my  heart  by  a  Spanish 
arcabucero. 

Had  it  not  been  of  sheer  steel,  the  forgot- 
ten bones  of  Miles  Standish 

Would  at  this  moment  be  mould,  in  their 
grave  in  the  Flemish  morasses.'  30 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  but 
looked  not  up  from  his  writing: 

'  Truly  the  breath  of  the  Lord ,  hath  slack- 
ened the  speed  of  the  bullet; 

He  in  his  mercy  preserved  you,  to  be  our 
shield  and  our  weapon  ! ' 

Still  the  Captain  continued,  unheeding  the 
words  of  the  stripling: 

'  See,  how  bright  they  are  burnished,  as  if 
in  an  arsenal  hanging; 

That  is  because  I  have  done  it  myself,  and 
not  left  it  to  others. 

Serve  yourself,  would  you  be  well  served, 
is  an  excellent  adage; 

So  I  take  care  of  my  arms,  as  you  of  your 
pens  and  your  inkhorn. 

Then,  too,  there  are  my  soldiers,  my  great, 
invincible  army, 

Twelve  men,  all  equipped,  having  each  his 
rest  and  his  matchlock,  4° 


214 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Eighteen  shillings  a  month,  together  with 

diet  and  pillage, 
And,  like  Caesar,  I  know  the  name  of  each 

of  my  soldiers  ! ' 
This  he  said  with  a  smile,  that  danced  in 

his  eyes,  as  the  sunbeams 
Dance  on  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  vanish 

again  in  a  moment. 
Alden  laughed  as  he  wrote,  and  still  the 

Cafptain  continued: 
'  Look  !  you  can  see  from  this  window  my 

brazen  howitzer  planted 
High  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  a  preacher 

who  speaks  to  the  purpose, 
Steady,  straightforward,  and  strong,  with 

irresistible  logic, 
Orthodox,  flashing  conviction  right  into  the 

hearts  of  the  heathen. 
N^ow  we  are  ready,  I  think,  for  any  assault 

of  the  Indians;  5o 

Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  and  the  sooner 

they  try  it  the  better,  — 
Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  be  it  sagamore, 

sachem,  or  pow-wow, 
Aspinet,   Samoset,   Corbitant,  Squanto,   or 

Tokamahamon  ! ' 

Long  at  the  window  he  stood,  and  wist- 
fully gazed  on  the  landscape, 

Washed  with  a  cold  gray  mist,  the  vapory 
breath  of  the  east-wind, 

Forest  and  meadow  and  hill,  and  the  steel- 
blue  rim  of  the  ocean, 

Lying  silent  and  sad,  in  the  afternoon  shad- 
ows and  sunshine. 

Over  his  countenance  flitted  a  shadow  like 
those  on  the  landscape, 

Gloom  intermingled  with  light ;  and  his 
voice  was  subdued  with  emotion, 

Tenderness,  pity,  regret,  as  after  a  pause 
he  proceeded  :  60 

'  Yonder  there,  on  the  hill  by  the  sea,  lies 
buried  Rose  Standish ; 

Beautiful  rose  of  love,  that  bloomed  for  me 
by  the  wayside  ! 

She  was  the  first  to  die  of  all  who  came  in 
the  Mayflower  ! 

Green  above  her  is  growing  the  field  of 
wheat  we  have  sown  there, 

Better  to  hide  from  the  Indian  scouts  the 
graves  of  our  people, 

Lest  they  should  count  them  and  see  how 
many  already  have  perished  ! ' 

Sadly  his  face  he  averted,  and  strode  up 
and  down,  and  was  thoughtful. 


Fixed  to  the  opposite  wall  was  a  shelf  of 
books,  and  among  them 

Prominent  three,  distinguished  alike  for 
bulk  and  for  binding; 

Bariffe's  Artillery  Guide,  and  the  Com- 
mentaries of  Caesar  7o 

Out  of  the  Latin  translated  by  Arthur 
Goldinge  of  London, 

And,  as  if  guarded  by  these,  between  them 
was  standing  the  Bible. 

Musing  a  moment  before  them,  Miles 
Standish  paused,  as  if  doubtful 

Which  of  the  three  he  should  choose  for 
his  consolation  and  comfort, 

Whether  the  wars  of  the  Hebrews,  the  fa- 
mous campaigns  of  the  Romans, 

Or  the  Artillery  practice,  designed  for  bel- 
ligerent Christians. 

Finally  down  from  its  shelf  he  dragged  the 
ponderous  Roman, 

Seated  himself  at  the  window,  and  opened 
the  book,  and  in  silence 

Turned  o'er  the  well-worn  leaves,  where 
thumb-marks  thick  on  the  margin, 

Like  the  trample  of  feet,  proclaimed  the 
battle  was  hottest.  80 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the 
hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling, 

Busily  writing  epistles  important,  to  go  by 
the  Mayflower, 

Ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow,  or  next  day 
at  ktest,  God  willing  ! 

Homeward  bound  with  the  tidings  of  all 
that  terrible  winter, 

Letters  written  by  Alden,  and  full  of  the 
name  of  Priscilla  ! 

Full  of  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Pu- 
ritan maiden  Priscilla  ! 


LOVE    AND   FRIENDSHIP 

NOTHING  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the 
hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling, 

Or  an  occasional  sigh  from  the  laboring 
heart  of  the  Captain, 

Reading  the  marvellous  words  and  achieve- 
ments of  Julius  Cfesar. 

After  a  while  he  exclaimed,  as  he  smote 
with  his  hand,  palm  downwards, 

Heavily  on  the  page  :  '  A  wonderful  man 
was  this  Caesar  ! 

You  are  a  writer,  and  I  am  a  fighter,  but 
here  is  a  fellow 


HENRY   WAETSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


215 


Who  could  both  write  and  fight,  and  in 
both  was  equally  skilful !  ' 

Straightway  answered  and  spake  John 
Alden,  the  comely,  the  youthful : 

'  Yes,  he  was  equally  skilled,  as  you  say, 
with  his  pen  and  his  weapons. 

Somewhere  have  I  read,  but  where  I  for- 
get, he  could  dictate  10 

Seven  letters  at  once,  at  the  same  time 
writing  his  memoirs.' 

'Truly,'  continued  the  Captain,  not  heed- 
ing or  hearing  the  other, 

'  Truly  a  wonderful  man  was  Caius  Julius 
Csesar  ! 

Better  be  first,  he  said,  in  a  little  Iberian 
village, 

Than  be  second  in  Rome,  and  I  think  he  was 
right  when  he  said  it. 

Twice  was  he  married  before  he  was  twenty, 
and  many  times  after  ; 

Battles  five  hundred  he  fought,  and  a  thou- 
sand cities  he  conquered  ; 

He,  too,  fought  in  Flanders,  as  he  himself 
has  recorded  ; 

Finally  he  was  stabbed  by  his  friend,  the 
orator  Brutus  ! 

Now,  do  you  know  what  he  did  on  a  certain 
occasion  in  Flanders,  20 

When  the  rear-guard  of  his  army  retreated, 
the  front  giving  way  too, 

And  the  immortal  Twelfth  Legion  was 
crowded  so  closely  together 

There  was  no  room  for  their  swords  ?  Why, 
he  seized  a  shield  from  a  soldier, 

Put  himself  straight  at  the  head  of  his 
troops,  and  commanded  the  captains, 

Calling  on  each  by  his  name,  to  order  for- 
ward the  ensigns  ; 

Then  to  widen  the  ranks,  and  give  more 
room  for  their  weapons  ; 

So  he  won  the  day,  the  battle  of  something- 
or-other. 

That 's  what  I  always  say  ;  if  you  wish  a 
thing  to  be  well  done, 

You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave 
it  to  others  ! ' 

All  was  silent  again;  the  Captain  con- 
tinued his  reading,  30 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the 
hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling 

Writing  epistles  important  to  go  next  day 
by  the  Mayflower, 

Filled  with  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the 
Puritan  maiden  Priscilla; 


Every  sentence  began  or  closed  with  the 
name  of  Priscilla, 

Till  the  treacherous  pen,  to  which  he  con- 
fided the  secret, 

Strove  to  betray  it  by  singing  and  shouting 
the  name  of  Priscilla! 

Finally  closing  his  book,  with  a  bang  of  the 
ponderous  cover, 

Sudden  and  loud  as  the  sound  of  a  soldier 
grounding  his  musket, 

Thus  to  the  young  man  spake  Miles  Stan- 
dish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth: 

'  When  you  have  finished  your  work,  I 
have  something  important  to  tell 
you.  4o 

Be  not  however  in  haste ;  I  can  wait;  I  shall 
not  be  impatient!  ' 

Straightway  Aldeu  replied,  as  he  folded  the 
last  of  his  letters, 

Pushing  his  papers  aside,  and  giving  respect- 
ful attention: 

'  Speak;  for  whenever  you  speak,  I  am  al- 
ways ready  to  listen, 

Always  ready  to  hear  whatever  pertains  to 
Miles  Standish.' 

Thereupon  answered  the  Captain,  embar- 
rassed, and  culling  his  phrases: 

'  'T  is  not  good  for  a  man  to  be  alone,  say 
the  Scriptures. 

This  I  have  said  before,  and  again  and  again 
I  repeat  it; 

Every  hour  in  the  day,  I  think  it,  and  feel 
it,  and  say  it. 

Since  Rose  Standish  died,  my  life  has  been 
weary  and  dreary ;  50 

Sick  at  heart  have  I  been,  beyond  the  heal- 
•  ing  of  friendship; 

Oft  in  my  lonely  hours  have  I  thought  of 
the  maiden  Priscilla. 

She  is  alone  in  the  world ;  her  father  and 
mother  and  brother 

Died  in  the  winter  together;  I  saw  her 
going  and  coming, 

Now  to  the  grave  of  the  dead,  and  now  to 
the  bed  of  the  dying, 

Patient,  courageous,  and  strong,  and  said  to 
myself,  that  if  ever 

There  were  angels  on  earth,  as  there  are 
angels  in  heaven, 

Two  have  I  seen  and  known ;  and  the  angel 
whose  name  is  Priscilla 

Holds  in  my  desolate  life  the  place  which 
the  other  abandoned. 

Long  have  I  cherished  the  thought,  but 
never  have  dared  to  reveal  it,  60 


2l6 


CHIEF   AMERICAN"  POETS 


Being  a  coward  in  this,  though  valiant 
enough  for  the  most  part. 

Go  to  the  damsel  Priscilla,  the  loveliest 
maiden  of  Plymouth, 

Say  that  a  blunt  old  Captain,  a  man  not  of 
words  but  of  actions, 

Offers  his  hand  and  his  heart,  the  hand  and 
heart  of  a  soldier. 

Not  in  these  words,  you  know,  but  this  in 
short  is  my  meaning; 

I  am  a  maker  of  war,  and  not  a  maker  of 
phrases. 

You,  who  are  bred  as  a  scholar,  can  say  it  in 
elegant  language, 

Such  as  you  read  in  your  books  of  the  plead- 
ings and  wooings  of  lovers, 

Such  as  you  think  best  adapted  to  win  the 
heart  of  a  maiden.' 

When  he  had  spoken,  John  Alden,  the 

fair-haired,  taciturn  stripling,          70 
All  aghast  at  his  words,  surprised,  embar- 
rassed, bewildered, 
Trying  to  mask  his  dismay  by  treating  the 

subject  with  lightness, 
Trying  to  smile,  and  yet  feeling  his  heart 

stand  still  in  his  bosom, 
Just  as  a  timepiece  stops  in  a  house  that  is 

stricken  by  lightning, 
Thus  made  answer  r,nd   spake,  or   rather 

stammered  than  answered: 
*  Such  a  message  as  that,  I  am  sure  I  should 

mangle  and  mar  it; 
If  yovi  would  have  it  well  done,  —  I  am  only 

repeating  your  maxim,  — 
You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave 

it  to  others  ! ' 
But  with  the  air  of  a  man  whom  nothing  can 

turn  from  his  purpose, 
Gravely  shaking  his  head,  made  answer  the 

Captain  of  Plymouth  :  80 

'Truly  the  maxim  is  good,  and  I  do  not 

mean  to  gainsay  it; 
But  we  must  use  it  discreetly,  and  not  waste 

powder  for  nothing. 
Now,  as  I  said  before,  I  was  never  a  maker 

of  phrases. 
I  can  march  up  to  a  fortress  and  summon 

the  place  to  surrender, 
But  march  up  to  a  woman  with  such  a  pro- 
posal, I  dare  not. 
I  'm  not  afraid  of  bullets,  nor  shot  from  the 

mouth  of  a  cannon, 
But  of   a  thundering  "  No  !  "  point-blank 

from  the  mouth  of  a  woman, 


That  I  confess  I  'm  afraid  of,  nor  am  I 

ashamed  to  confess  it ! 
So  you  must  grant  my  request,  for  you  are 

an  elegant  scholar, 
Having  the  graces  of  speech,  and  skill  in  the 

turning  of  phrases.'  go 

Taking  the  hand  of  his  friend,  who  still  wag 

reluctant  and  doubtful, 
Holding  it  long  in  his  own,  and  pressing  it 

kindly,  he  added: 
'  Though  I   have  spoken  thus  lightly,  yet 

deep  is  the  feeling  that  prompts  me ; 
Surely  you  cannot  refuse  what  I  ask  in  the 

name  of  our  friendship  ! ' 
Then  made  answer  John  Alden :  '  The  name 

of  friendship  is  sacred; 
What  you  demand  in  that  name,  I  have  not 

the  power  to  deny  you  ! ' 
So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  subduing  and 

moulding  the  gentler, 
Friendship  prevailed  over  love,  and  Alden 

went  on  his  errand. 


Ill 
THE   LOVER'S   ERRAND 

So  the  strong  will   prevailed,  and  Alden 

went  on  his  errand, 
Out  of  the  street  of  the  village,  and  into  the 

paths  of  the  forest, 
Into  the  tranquil  woods,  where  bluebirds 

and  robins  were  building 
Towns  in  the  populous  trees,  with  hanging 

gardens  of  verdure, 
Peaceful,  aerial  cities  of  joy  and  affection 

and  freedom. 
All  around  him  was  calm,  but  within  him 

commotion  and  conflict, 
Love  contending  with  friendship,  and  self 

with  each  generous  impulse. 
To  and  fro  in  his  breast  his  thoughts  were 

heaving  and  dashing, 
As  in  a  foundering  ship,  with  every  roll  of 

the  vessel, 
Washes  the  bitter  sea,  the  merciless  surge 

of  the  ocean  !  10 

'  Must  I  relinquish  it  all,'  he  cried  with  a 

wild  lamentation,  — 
'  Must  I  relinquish  it  all,  the  joy,  the  hope, 

the  illusion  ? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  loved,  and  waited, 

and  worshipped  in  silence  ? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  followed  the  flying 

feet  and  the  shadow 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


217 


Over  the  wintry  sea,  to  the  desolate  shores 

of  New  England  ? 
Truly  the  heart  is  deceitful,  and  out  of  its 

depths  of  corruption 
Rise,  like  an  exhalation,  the  misty  phantoms 

of  passion; 

Angels  of  light  they  seem,  but  are  only  de- 
lusions of  Satan. 
All  is  clear  to  me  now;  I  feel  it,  I  see  it 

distinctly! 
This  is  the  hand  of  the  Lord;  it  is  kid  upon 

me  in  anger,  20 

For  I  have  followed  too  much  the  heart's 

desires  and  devices, 
Worshipping  Astaroth  blindly,  and  impious 

idols  of  Baal. 
This  is  the  cross  I  must  bear;  the  sin  and 

the  swift  retribution.' 

So  through  the   Plymouth  woods   John 

Alden  went  on  his  errand; 
Crossing  the  brook  at  the  ford,  where  it 

brawled  over  pebble  and  shallow, 
Gathering  still,  as  he  went,  the  May-flowers 

blooming  around  him, 
Fragrant,  filling  the  air  with  a  strange  and 

wonderful  sweetness, 
Children   lost  in  the  woods,  and   covered 

with  leaves  in  their  slumber. 
'  Puritan  flowers,'  he  said,  '  and  the  type  of 

Puritan  maidens, 
Modest   and   simple   and   sweet,  the  very 

type  of  Priscilla  !  3o 

So  I  will  take  them  to  her;  to  Priscilla  the 

Mayflower  of  Plymouth, 
Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  as  a  parting 

gift  will  I  take  them; 
Breathing   their   silent  farewells,  as  they 

fade  and  wither  and  perish, 
Soon  to  be  thrown  away  as  is  the  heart  of 

the  giver.' 
So   through    the    Plymouth    woods    John 

Alden  went  on  his  errand; 
Came  to  an  open  space,  and  saw  the  disk  of 

the  ocean, 

Sailless,  sombre  and  cold  with  the  comfort- 
less breath  of  the  east  wind; 
Saw   the   new-built   house,  and   people  at 

work  in  a  meadow; 

Heard,  as  he  drew  near  the  door,  the  mu- 
sical voice  of  Priscilla 
Singing  the  hundredth  Psalm,  the  grand  old 

Puritan  anthem,  40 

Music  that  Luther  sang  to  the  sacred  words 

of  the  Psalmist, 


Full  of  the  breath  of  the  Lord,  consoling 

and  comforting  many. 
Then,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the 

form  of  the  maiden 
Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded 

wool  like  a  snow-drift 
Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feeding 

the  ravenous  spindle, 
While   with   her   foot   on  the  treadle  she 

guided  the  wheel  in  its  motion. 
Open  wide   on   her  lap  lay  the  well-worn 

psalm-book  of  Ains  worth, 
Printed  in  Amsterdam,  the  words  and  the 

music  together, 
Rough-hewn,  angular  notes,  like  stones  in 

the  wall  of  a  churchyard, 
Darkened   and   overhung   by  the  running 

vine  of  the  verses.  50 

Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she 

sang  the  old  Puritan  anthem, 
She,  the  Puritan  girl,  in  the  solitude  of  the 

forest, 
Making  the  humble  house  and  the  modest 

apparel  of  homespun 
Beautiful  with  her  beauty,  and  rich  with 

the  wealth  of  her  being  ! 
Over  him  rushed,  like  a  wind  that  is  keen 

and  cold  and  relentless, 
Thoughts  of  what  might  have  been,  and  the 

weight  and  woe  of  his  errand; 
All  the  dreams  that  had  faded,  and  all  the 

hopes  that  had  vanished, 
All  his  life  henceforth  a  dreary  and  tenant- 
less  mansion, 

Haunted  by  vain  regrets,  and  pallid,  sorrow- 
ful faces. 
Still  he  said  to  himself,  and  almost  fiercely 

he  said  it,  60 

4  Let  not  him  that  putteth  his  hand  to  the 

plough  look  backwards; 
Though  the  ploughshare  cut  through  the 

flowers  of  life  to  its  fountains, 
Though  it  pass  o'er  the  graves  of  the  dead 

and  the  hearths  of  the  living, 
It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord ;  and  his  mercy 

endureth  forever  ! ' 

So  he  entered  the  house :  and  the  hum  of 

the  wheel  and  the  singing 
Suddenly  ceased;  for  Priscilla,  aroused  by 

his  step  on  the  threshold, 
Rose  as  he  entered,  and  gave  him  her  hand, 

in  signal  of  welcome, 
Saying,  '  I  knew  it  was  you,  when  I  heard 

your  step  in  the  passage ; 


2l8 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


For  I  was  thinking  of  you,  as  I  sat  there 
singing  and  spinning.' 

Awkward  and  dumb  with  delight,  that  a 
thought  of  him  had  been  mingled  70 

Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,  that  came  from 
the  heart  of  the  maiden, 

Silent  before  her  he  stood,  and  gave  her 
the  flowers  for  an  answer, 

Finding  no  words  for  his  thought.  He  re- 
membered that  day  in  the  winter, 

After  the  first  great  snow,  when  he  broke 
a  path  from  the  village, 

Reeling  and  plunging  along  through  the 
drifts  that  encumbered  the  doorway, 

Stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet  as  he  en- 
tered the  house,  and  Priscilla 

Laughed  at  his  snowy  locks,  and  gave  him 
a  seat  by  the  fireside, 

Grateful  and  pleased  to  know  he  had 
thought  of  her  in  the  snow-storm. 

Had  he  but  spoken  then  !  perhaps  not  in 
vain  had  he  spoken; 

Now  it  was  all  too  late;  the  golden  mo- 
ment had  vanished  !  80 

So  he  stood  there  abashed,  and  gave  her 
the  flowers  for  an  answer. 

Then  they  sat  down  and   talked  of  the 

birds  and  the  beautiful  spring-time, 
Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,  and  the 

Mayflower  that  sailed  on  the  morrow. 
*  I  have  been  thinking  all  day,'  said  gently 

the  Puritan  maiden, 
'  Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day, 

of  the  hedge-rows  of  England,  — 
They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country 

is  all  like  a  garden: 
Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song 

of  the  lark  and  the  linnet, 
Seeing  the  village  street,  and  familiar  faces 

of  neighbors 

Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to  gos- 
sip together, 
And,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  village 

church,  with  the  ivy  9o 

Climbing  the  old  gray  tower,  and  the  quiet 

graves  in  the  churchyard. 
Kind  are  the  people  I  live  with,  and  dear 

to  me  my  religion; 
Still  my  heart  is  so  sad,  that  I  wish  myself 

back  in  Old  England. 
You  will  say  it  is  wrong,  but  I  cannot  help 

it  :  I  almost 
Wish  myself  back  in  Old  England,  I  feel 

so  lonely  and  wretched.' 


Thereupon  answered  the  youth:  '  Indeed 
I  do  not  condemn  you; 

Stouter  hearts  than  a  woman's  have  quailed 
in  this  terrible  winter. 

Yours  is  tender  and  trusting,  and  needs  a 
stronger  to  lean  on; 

So  I  have  come  to  you  now,  with  an  offer 
and  proffer  of  marriage 

Made  by  a  good  man  and  true,  Miles  Stan- 
dish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  ! '  100 

Thus  he  delivered  his  message,  the  dex- 
terous writer  of  letters,  — 
Did  not  embellish  the  theme,  nor  array  it 

in  beautiful  phrases, 
But  came  straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted 

it  out  like  a  school-boy; 
Even    the   Captain   himself   could   hardly 

have  said  it  more  bluntly. 
Mute  with  amazement  and  sorrow,  Priscilla 

the  Puritan  maiden 
Looked  into  Alden's  face,  her  eyes  dilated 

with  wonder, 
Feeling  his  words  like  a  blow,  that  stunned 

her     and     rendered     her     speech- 
less; 
Till  at  length  she  exclaimed,  interrupting 

the  ominous  silence: 
'  If  the  great  Captain  of   Plymouth  is  so 

very  eager  to  wed  me, 
Why  does  he  not  come  himself,  and  take 

the  trouble  to  woo  me  ?  n0 

If  I  am  not  worth  the  wooing,  I  surely  am 

not  worth  the  winning  !  ' 
Then   John   Alden   began   explaining  and 

smoothing  the  matter, 
Making  it  worse  as  he  went,  by  saying  the 

Captain  was  busy,  — 
Had  no  time  for  such  things  —  such  things  ! 

the  words  grating  harshly 
Fell  on  the  ear  of  Priscilla;  and  swift  as  a 

flash  she  made  answer: 
'  Has  he  no  time  for  such  things,  as  you 

call  it,  before  he  is  married, 
Would  he  be  likely  to  find  it,  or  make  it, 

after  the  wedding  ? 
That  is  the  way  with  you  men;  you  don't 

understand  us,  you  cannot. 
When   you    have   made    up    your  minds, 

after  thinking  of  this  one  and  that 

one, 
Choosing,  selecting,   rejecting,   comparing 

one  with  another,  120 

Then  you  make  known  your  desire,  with 

abrupt  and  sudden  avowal, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


219 


And  are  offended  and  hurt,  and  indignant 

perhaps,  that  a  woman 
Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a  love  that  she 

never  suspected, 
Does  not  attain  at  a  bound  the  height  to 

which  you  have  been  climbing. 
This   is   not   right  nor   just:  for  surely  a 

woman's  affection 
Is  not  a  thing  to  be  asked  for,  and  had  for 

only  the  asking. 
When  one  is  truly  in   love,  one   not  only 

says  it,  but  shows  it. 
Had  he  but  waited  awhile,  had  he  only 

showed  that  he  loved  me, 
Even  this  Captain  of  yours  —  who  knows  ? 

—  at  last  might  have  won  me, 
Old  and  rough  as  he  is ;  but  now  it  never 

can  happen.'  130 

Still  John  Alden  went  on,  unheeding  the 

words  of  Priscilla, 
Urging  the  suit  of  his  friend,  explaining, 

persuading,  expanding; 
Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all 

his  battles  in  Flanders, 
How  with  the  people  of  God  he  had  chosen 

to  suffer  affliction; 
How,  in  return  for  his  zeal,  they  had  made 

him  Captain  of  Plymouth; 
He  was  a  gentleman  born,  could  trace  his 

pedigree  plainly 
Back  to  Hugh  Standish  of  Duxbury  Hall, 

in  Lancashire,  England, 
Who  was  the  son  of  Ralph,  and  the  grand- 
sou  of  Thurston  de  Standish; 
Heir  unto  vast  estates,  of  which  he  was 

basely  defrauded, 
Still  bore  the  family  arms,  and  had  for  his 

crest  a  cock  argent,  140 

Combed  and  wattled  gules,  and  all  the  rest 

of  the  blazon. 

He  was  a  man  of  honor,  of  noble  and  gen- 
erous nature; 
Though  he  was  rough,  he  was  kindly;  she 

knew  how  during  the  winter 
He  had  attended  the  sick,  with  a  hand  as 

gentle  as  woman's; 
Somewhat  hasty  and  hot,  he  could  not  deny 

it,  and  headstrong, 
Stern  as  a  soldier  might  be,  but  hearty,  and 

placable  always, 
Not  to  be  laughed  at  and  scorned,  because 

he  was  little  of  stature; 
For  he  was  great  of  heart,  magnanimous, 

courtly,  courageous; 


Any  woman  in  Plymouth,  nay,  any  woman 

in  England, 
Might  be  happy  and  proud  to  be  called  the 

wife  of  Miles  Standish  !  150 

But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his 
praise 


Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of 

of  his  rival, 
Archly  the  maiden  smiled,  and,  with  eyes 

overrunning  with  laughter, 
Said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  '  Why  don't  you 

speak  for  yourself,  John  ? ' 


IV 


JOHN    ALDEN 

INTO  the  open  air  John  Alden,  perplexed 
and  bewildered, 

Rushed  like  a  man  insane,  and  wandered 
alone  by  the  sea-side; 

Paced  up  and  down  the  sands,  and  bared  his 
head  to  the  east-wind, 

Cooling  his  heated  brow,  and  the  fire  and 
fever  within  him. 

Slowly  as  out  of  the  heavens,  with  apocalyp- 
tical splendors, 

Sank  the  City  of  God,  in  the  vision  of  John 
the  Apostle, 

So,  with  its  cloudy  walls  of  chrysolite,  jas- 
per, and  sapphire, 

Sank  the  broad  red  sun,  and  over  its  turrets 
uplifted 

Glimmered  the  golden  reed  of  the  angel 
who  measured  the  city. 

'  Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East ! '  he  ex> 
claimed  in  his  wild  exultation,  10 

'  Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East,  from  the 
caves  of  the  misty  Atlantic  ! 

Blowing  o'er  fields  of  dulse,  and  measure- 
less meadows  of  sea-grass, 

Blowing  o'er  rocky  wastes,  and  the  grottoes 
and  gardens  of  ocean  !  » 

Lay  thy  cold,  moist  hand  on  my  burning 
forehead,  and  wrap  me 

Close  in  thy  garments  of  mist,  to  allay  the 
fever  within  me  ! ' 

Like  an  awakened  conscience,  the  sea  was 

moaning  and  tossing, 

Beating  remorseful  and  loud  the  mutable 
sands  of  the  sea-shore. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Fierce  iii  his  soul  was  the  struggle  and  tu- 
mult of  passions  contending; 

Love  triumphant  and  crowned,  and  friend- 
ship wounded  and  bleeding, 

Passionate  cries  of  desire,  and  importunate 
pleadings  of  duty  !  20 

'  Is  it  my  fault,'  he  said,  '  that  the  maiden 
has  chosen  between  us  ? 

Is  it  my  fault  that  he  failed,  —  my  fault 
that  I  am  the  victor  ? ' 

Then  within  him  there  thundered  a  voice, 
like  the  voice  of  the  Prophet: 

'  It  hath  displeased  the  Lord  ! '  —  and  he 
thought  of  David's  transgression, 

Bathsheba's  beautiful  face,  and  his  friend 
in  the  front  of  the  battle  ! 

Shame  and  confusion  of  guilt,  and  abase- 
ment and  self-condemnation, 

Overwhelmed  him  at  once;  and  he  cried 
in  the  deepest  contrition: 

•It  hath  displeased  the  Lord!  It  is  the 
temptation  of  Satan! ' 

Then,  uplifting  his  head,  he  looked  at  the 

sea,  and  beheld  there 
Dimly  the  shadowy  form  of  the  Mayflower 

riding  at  anchor,  3o 

Rocked  on  the  rising  tide,  and  ready  to  sail 

on  the  morrow; 
Heard  the  voices  of  men  through  the  mist, 

the  rattle  of  cordage 
Thrown  on  the  deck,  the  shouts  of  the  mate, 

and  the  sailors'  '  Ay,  ay,  Sir  ! ' 
Clear  and  distinct,  but  not  loud,  in  the  drip- 
ping air  of  the  twilight. 
Still  for  a  moment  he  stood,  and  listened, 

and  stared  at  the  vessel, 
Then  went  hurriedly  on,  as  one  who,  seeing 

a  phantom, 
Stops,  then  quickens  his  pace,  and  follows 

the  beckoning  shadow. 
'Yes,  it  is  plain  to  me  now,'  he  murmured; 

« the  hand  of  the  Lord  is 
Leading  me  out  of  the  land  of  darkness, 

the  bondage  of  error, 
Through  the  sea,  that  shall  lift  the  walls  of 

its  waters  around  me,  40 

Hiding  me,  cutting  me  off,  from  the  cruel 

thoughts  that  pursue  me. 
Back  will  I  go  o'er  the  ocean,  this  dreary 

land  will  abandon, 
Her  whom  I  may  not  love,  and  him  whom 

my  heart  has  offended. 
Better  to  be  in  my  grave  in  the  green  old 

churchyard  in  England, 


Close  by  my  mother's  side,  and  among  the 
dust  of  my  kindred; 

Better  be  dead  and  forgotten,  than  living 
in  shame  and  dishonor; 

Sacred  and  safe  and  unseen,  in  the  dark  of 
the  narrow  chamber 

With  me  my  secret  shall  lie,  like  a  buried 
jewel  that  glimmers 

Bright  on  the  hand  that  is  dust,  in  the 
chambers  of  silence  and  dark- 
ness, — 

Yes,  as  the  marriage  ring  of  the  great  es- 
pousal hereafter  ! '  50 

Thus   as   he    spake,   he   turned,   in   the 

strength  of  his  strong  resolution, 
Leaving  behind  him  the  shore,  and  hurried 

along  in  the  twilight, 
Through  the  congenial  gloom  of  the  forest 

silent  and  sombre. 
Till  he  beheld  the  lights  in  the  seven  houses 

of  Plymouth, 
Shining  like  seven  stars  in  the  dusk  and 

mist  of  the  evening. 

Soon  he  entered  his  door,  and  found  the  re- 
doubtable Captain 
Sitting  alone,  and  absorbed  in  the  martial 

pages  of  Caesar, 
Fighting  some  great  campaign  in  Hainault 

or  Brabant  or  Flanders. 
'  Long  have  you  been  on  your  errand,'  he 

said  with  a  cheery  demeanor, 
Even  as  one  who  is  waiting  an  answer,  and 

fears  not  the  issue.  60 

'  Not   far  off   is   the  house,  although  the 

woods  are  between  us; 
But  you  have  lingered  so  long,  that  while 

you  were  going  and  coming 
I  have  fought  ten  battles  and  sacked  and 

demolished  a  city. 
Come,  sit  down,  and  in  order  relate  to  me 

all  that  has  happened.' 

.  Then  John  Alden  spake,  and  related  the 

wondrous  adventure, 
From  beginning  to  end,  minutely,  just  as  it 

happened;  , 

How  he  had  seen  Priscilla,  and  how  he  had 

sped  in  his  courtship, 
Only  smoothing  a  little,  and  softening  down 

her  refusal. 
But  when  he  came  at  length  to  the  words 

Priscilla  had  spoken, 
Words  so  tender  and  cruel:  'Why  don't 

you  speak  for  yourself,  John  ? '      70 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


Up  leaped  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and 
stamped  on  the  floor,  till  his  armor 

Clanged  on  the  wall,  where  it  hung,  with  a 
sound  of  sinister  omen. 

All  his  pent-up  wrath  burst  forth  in  a  sud- 
den explosion, 

E'en  as  a  hand-grenade,  that  scatters  de- 
struction around  it. 

Wildly  he  shouted,  and  loud:  'John  Alden! 
you  have  betrayed  me! 

Me,  Miles  Standish,  your  friend!  have 
supplanted,  defVauded,  betrayed  me ! 

One  of  my  ancestors  ran  his  sword  through 
the  heart  of  Wat  Tyler; 

Who  shall  prevent  me  from  running  my 
own  through  the  heart  of  a  traitor  ? 

Yours  is  the  greater  treason,  for  yours  is  a 
treason  to  friendship ! 

You,  who  lived  under  my  roof,  whom  I 
cherished  and  loved  as  a  brother;  80 

You,  who  have  fed  at  my  board,  and  drunk 
at  my  cup,  to  whose  keeping 

I  have  intrusted  my  honor,  my  thoughts  the 
most  sacred  and  secret,  — 

You  too,  Brutus  !  ah  woe  to  the  name  of 
friendship  hereafter  ! 

Brutus  was  Caesar's  friend,  and  you  were 
mine,  but  henceforward 

Let  there  be  nothing  between  us  save  war, 
and  implacable  hatred  ! ' 

So  spake  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and 
strode  about  in  the  chamber, 

Chafing  and  choking  with  rage ;  like  cords 
were  the  veins  on  his  temples. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  anger  a  man  ap- 
peared at  the  doorway, 

Bringing  in  uttermost  haste  a  message  of 
urgent  importance, 

Rumors  of  danger  and  war  and  hostile  in- 
cursions of  Indians  !  9o 

Straightway  the  Captain  paused,  and,  with- 
out further  question  or  parley, 

Took  from  the  nail  on  the  wall  his  sword 
with  its  scabbard  of  iron, 

Buckled  the  belt  round  his  waist,  and, 
frowning  fiercely,  departed. 

Alden  was  left  alone.  He  heard  the  clank 
of  the  scabbard 

Growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  dying 
away  in  the  distance. 

Then  he  arose  from  his  seat,  and  looked 
forth  into  the  darkness, 

Felt  the  cool  air  blow  on  his  cheek  that 
was  hot  with  the  insult, 


Lifted  his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and,  folding 
his  hands  as  in  childhood, 

Prayed  in  the  silence  of  night  to  the  Father 
who  seeth  in  secret. 

Meanwhile  the  choleric  Captain  strode 

wrathful  away  to  the  council,         too 
Found   it   already   assembled,  impatiently 

waiting  his  coming; 
Men  in  the  middle  of  life,  austere  and  grave 

in  deportment, 
Only  one  of  them  old,  the  hill  that  was 

nearest  to  heaven, 
Covered  with  snow,  but  erect,  the  excellent 

Elder  of  Plymouth. 
God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the 

wheat  for  his  planting, 
Then  had  sifted  the  wheat,  as  the  living 

seed  of  a  nation; 
So  say  the  chronicles  old,  and  such  is  the 

faith  of  the  people  I 

Near  them  was  standing  an  Indian,  in  atti- 
tude stern  and  defiant, 
Naked  down  to  the  waist,  and  grim  and 

ferocious  in  aspect; 
While  on  the  table  before  them  was  lying 

unopened  a  Bible,  1 10 

Ponderous,  bound  in  leather,  brass- studded, 

printed  in  Holland, 
And  beside  it  outstretched  the  skin  of  a 

rattlesnake  glittered, 
Filled,  like  a  quiver,  with  arrows ;  a  signal 

and  challenge  of  warfare, 
Brought  by  the  Indian,  and  speaking  with 

arrowy  tongues  of  defiance. 
This  Miles  Standish  beheld,  as  he  entered, 

and  heard  them  debating 
What  were  an  answer  befitting  the  hostile 

message  and  menace, 

Talking  of  this  and  of  that,  contriving,  sug- 
gesting, objecting; 
One  voice   only  for  peace,  and  that  the 

voice  of  the  Elder, 
Judging  it  wise  and  well  that  some  at  least 

were  converted, 
Rather  than  any  were  slain,  for  this  was 

but  Christian  behavior  !  120 

Then  out  spake   Miles  Standish,  the  stal- 
wart Captain  of  Plymouth, 
Muttering  deep  in  his  throat,  for  his  voice 

was  husky  with  anger, 
'  What !  do  you  mean  to  make  war  with 

milk  and  the  water  of  roses  ? 
Is  it  to  shoot  red  squirrels  you  have  you* 

howitzer  planted 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


There  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  or  is  it  to 

shoot  red  devils  ? 
Truly  the  only  tongue  that  is  understood 

by  a  savage 
Must  be  the  tongue  of  fire  that  speaks  from 

the  mouth  of  the  cannon  ! ' 
Thereupon  answered  and  said  the  excellent 

Elder  of  Plymouth, 

Somewhat  amazed  and  alarmed  at  this  ir- 
reverent language; 
'  Not  so  thought  St.  Paul,  nor  yet  the  other 

Apostles;  130 

Not  from  the   camion's   mouth   were   the 

tongues  of  fire  they  spake  with  ! ' 
But  unheeded  fell  this  mild  rebuke  on  the 

Captain, 
YTho  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and  thus 

continued  discoursing: 
'  Leave  this  matter  to  me,  for  to  me  by 

right  it  pertaineth. 
War  is  a  terrible  trade;  but  in  the  cause 

that  is  righteous, 
Sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder;  and  thus  I 

answer  the  challenge  !  ' 

Then  from  the  rattlesnake's  skin,  with  a 

sudden,  contemptuous  gesture, 
Jerking  the  Indian  arrows,  he  filled  it  with 

powder  and  bullets 
Full  to  the  very  jaws,  and  handed  it  back  to 

the  savage, 
Saying,  in  thundering  tones:  'Here,  take 

it  !  this  is  your  answer  ! '  i40 

Silently  out  of  the  room  then  glided  the 

glistening  savage, 
Bearing  the   serpent's  skin,  and   seeming 

himself  like  a  serpent, 
Winding  his  sinuous  way  in  the  dark  to  the 

depths  of  the  forest 


THE   SAILING   OF   THE   MAYFLOWER 

JUST  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists 
uprose  from  the  meadows, 

There  was  a  stir  and  a  sound  in  the  slum- 
bering village  of  Plymouth; 

Clanging  and  clicking  of  arms,  and  the  order 
imperative,  '  Forward  ! ' 

Given  in  tone  suppressed,  a  tramp  of  feet, 
and  then  silence. 

Figures  ten,  in  the  mist,  marched  slowly  out 
of  the  village. 


Standish  the  stalwart  it  was,  with  eight  of 

his  valorous  army, 
Led  by  their  Indian  guide,  by  Hobomok, 

friend  of  the  white  men, 
Northward  marching  to  quell  the  sudden 

revolt  of  the  savage. 
Giants   they  seemed   in  the   mist,  or   the 

mighty  men  of  King  David; 
Giants  in  heart  they  were,  who  believed  in 

God  and  the  Bible,  —  ,0 

Ay,  who  believed  in  the  smiting  of  Midian- 

ites  and  Philistines. 
Over  them   gleamed  far  off   the  crimson 

banners  of  morning; 
Under  them  loud  on  the  sands,  the  serried 

billows,  advancing, 
Fired  along  the  line,  and  in  regular  order 

retreated. 

Many  a  mile  had  they  marched,  when  at 

length  the  village  of  Plymouth 
Woke  from  its  sleep,  and  arose,  intent  on 

its  manifold  labors. 
Sweet  was  the  air  and  soft;  and  slowly  the 

smoke  from  the  chimneys 
Rose   over    roofs    of   thatch,  and   pointed 

steadily  eastward; 
Men  came  forth  from  the  doors,  and  paused 

and  talked  of  the  weather, 
Said  that  the  wind  had  changed,  and  was 

blowing  fair  for  the  Mayflower;.    20 
Talked  of   their  Captain's  departure,  and 

all  the  dangers  that  menaced, 
He  being  gone,  the  town,  and  what  should 

be  done  in  his  absence. 
Merrily  sang  the  birds, and  the  tender  voices 

of  women 
Consecrated  with  hymns  the  common  cares 

of  the  household. 
Out  of  the  sea  rose  the  sun,  and  the  billows 

rejoiced  at  his  coming; 
Beautiful  were  his  feet  on  the  purple  tops 

of  the  mountains; 

Beautiful  on  the  sails  of  the  Mayflower  rid- 
ing at  anchor, 
Battered  and   blackened  and  worn  by  all 

the  storms  of  the  winter. 
Loosely  against  her  masts  was  hanging  and 

flapping  her  canvas, 
Rent  by  so  many  gales,  and  patched  by  the 

hands  of  the  sailors.  30 

Suddenly  from  her  side,  as  the  sun  rose  over 

the  ocean, 
Darted  a  puff  of  smoke,  and  floated  sea- 

ward;  anon  rang 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


223 


Loud  over  field   and   forest  the   camion's 

roar,  and  the  echoes 

Heard  and  repeated  the  sound,  the  signal- 
gun  of  departure  ! 
Ah  !    but  with  louder   echoes  replied  the 

hearts  of  the  people  ! 
Meekly,  in  voices  subdued,  the  chapter  was 

read  from  the  Bible, 
Meekly  the  prayer  was  begun,  but  ended  in 

fervent  entreaty  ! 
Then  from  their  houses  in  haste  came  forth 

the  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth, 
Men  and  women  and  children,  all  hurrying 

down  to  the  sea-shore, 
Eager,  with  tearful  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to 

the  Mayflower,  .  40 

Homeward  bound  o'er  the  sea,  and  leaving 

them  here  in  the  desert. 

Foremost  among  them  was  Aldeii.  All 
night  he  had  lain  without  slumber, 

Turning  and  tossing  about  in  the  heat  and 
unrest  of  his  fever. 

He  had  beheld  Miles  Standish,  who  came 
back  late  from  the  council, 

Stalking  into  the  room,  and  heard  him  mut- 
ter and  murmur; 

Sometimes  it  seemed  a  prayer,  and  some- 
times it  sounded  like  swearing. 

Once  he  had  come  to  the  bed,  and  stood 
there  a  moment  in  silence; 

Then  he  had  turned  away,  and  said:  '  I  will 
not  awake  him; 

Let  him  sleep  on,  it  is  best;  for  what  is  the 
use  of  more  talking  !  ' 

Then  he  extinguished  the  light,  and  threw 
himself  down  on  his  pallet,  50 

Dressed  as  he  was,  and  ready  to  start  at 
the  break  of  the  morning,  — 

Covered  himself  with  the  cloak  he  had  worn 
in  his  campaigns  in  Flanders,  — 

Slept  as  a  soldier  sleeps  in  his  bivouac, 
ready  for  action. 

But  with  the  dawn  he  arose ;  in  the  twilight 
Alden  beheld  him 

Put  on  his  corselet  of  steel,  and  all  the  rest 
of  his  armor, 

Buckle  about  his  waist  his  trusty  blade  of 
Damascus, 

Take  from  the  corner  his  musket,  and  so 
stride  out  of  the  chamber. 

Often  the  heart  of  the  youth  had  burned 
and  yearned  to  embrace  him, 

Often  his  lips  had  essayed  to  speak,  im- 
ploring for  pardon; 


All  the  old  friendship  came  back,  with  its 
tender  and  grateful  emotions;  60 

But  his  pride  overmastered  the  nobler  na- 
ture within  him,  — 

Pride,  and  the  sense  of  his  wrong,  and  the 
burning  fire  of  the  insult. 

So  he  beheld  his  friend  departing  in  anger, 
but  spake  not, 

Saw  him  gojlorth  to  danger,  perhaps  to 
death,  and  he  spake  not  ! 

Then  he  arose  from  his  bed,  and  heard 
what  the  people  were  saying, 

Joined  in  the  talk  at  the  door,  with  Stephen 
and  Richard  and  Gilbert, 

Joined  in  the  morning  prayer,  and  in  the 
reading  of  Scripture, 

And,  with  the  others,  in  haste  went  hurry- 
ing down  to  the  sea-shore, 

Down  to  the  Plymouth  Rock,  that  had  been 
to  their  feet  as  a  doorstep 

Into  a  world  unknown,  —  the  corner-stone 
of  a  nation  !  70 

There  with  his  boat  was  the  Master,  al- 
ready a  little  impatient 

Lest  he  should  lose  the  tide,  or  the  wind 
might  shift  to  the  eastward, 

Square-built,  hearty,  and  strong,  with  an 
odor  of  ocean  about  him, 

Speaking  with  this  one  and  that,  and  cram- 
ming letters  and  parcels 

Into  his  pockets  capacious,  and  messages 
mingled  together 

Into  his  narrow  brain,  till  at  last  he  was 
wholly  bewildered. 

Nearer  the  boat  stood  Alden,  with  one  foot 
placed  on  the  gunwale, 

One  still  firm  on  the  rock,  and  talking  a> 
times  with  the  sailors, 

Seated  erect  on  the  thwarts,  all  ready  and 
eager  for  starting. 

He  too  was  eager  to  go,  and  thus  put  an 
end  to  his  anguish,  go 

Thinking  to  fly  from  despair,  that  swifter 
than  keel  is  or  canvas, 

Thinking  to  drown  in  the  sea  the  ghost 
that  would  rise  and  pursue  him. 

But  as  he  gazed  on  the  crowd,  he  beheld 
the  form  of  Priscilla 

Standing  dejected  among  them,  unconscious 
of  all  that  was  passing. 

Fixed  were  her  eyes  upon  his,  as  if  she  di- 
vined his  intention, 

Fixed  with  a  look  so  sad,  so  reproachful 
imploring,  and  patient, 


224 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


That  with  a  sudden  revulsion  his  heart  re- 
coiled from  its  purpose, 

As  from  the  verge  of  a  crag,  where  one 
step  more  is  destruction. 

Strange  is  the  heart  of  man,  with  its  quick, 
mysterious  instincts  ! 

Strange  is  the  life  of  man,  and  fatal  or 
fated  are  moments,  90 

Whereupon  turn,  as  on  hinges,  the  gates  of 
the  wall  adamantine  !* 

*  Here  I  remain  ! '  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
looked  at  the  heavens  above  him, 

Thanking  the  Lord  whose  breath  had  scat- 
tered the  mist  and  the  madness, 

Wherein,  blind  and  lost,  to  death  he  was 
staggering  headlong. 

'  Yonder  snow-white  cloud,  that  floats  in 
the  ether  above  me, 

Seems  like  a  hand  that  is  pointing  and  beck- 
oning over  the  ocean. 

There  is  another  hand,  that  is  not  so  spec- 
tral and  ghost-like, 

Holding  me,  drawing  me  back,  and  clasp- 
ing mine  for  protection. 

Float,  O  hand  of  cloud,  and  vanish  away  in 
the  ether  ! 

Roll  thyself  up  like  a  fist,  to  threaten  and 
daunt  me;  I  heed  not  100 

Either  your  warning  or  menace,  or  any 
omen  of  evil  ! 

There  is  no  land  so  sacred,  no  air  so  pure 
and  so  wholesome, 

As  is  the  air  she  breathes,  and  the  soil  that 
is  pressed  by  her  footsteps. 

Here  for  her  sake  will  I  stay,  and  like  an 
invisible  presence 

Hover  around  her  forever,  protecting,  sup- 
porting her  weakness  ; 

Yes  !  as  my  foot  was  the  first  that  stepped 
on  this  rock  at  the  landing, 

So,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  shall  it  be  the 
last  at  the  leaving  ! ' 

Meanwhile  the  Master  alert,  but  with  dig- 
nified air  and  important, 

Scanning  with  watchful  eye  the  tide  and 
the  wind  and  the  weather, 

Walked  about  on  the  sands,  and  the  people 
crowded  around  him  no 

Saying  a  few  last  words,  and  enforcing  his 
careful  remembrance. 

Then,  taking  each  by  the  hand,  as  if  he 
were  grasping  a  tiller, 

Into  the  boat  he  sprang,  and  in  haste 
shoved  off  to  his  vessel, 


Glad  in  his  heart  to  get  rid  of  all  this  worry 

and  flurry, 
Glad  to  be  gone  from  a  land  of  sand  and 

sickness  and  sorrow, 
Short  allowance  of  victual,  and  plenty  of 

nothing  but  Gospel ! 
Lost  in  the  sound  of  the  oars  was  the  last 

farewell  of  the  pilgrims. 
O   strong   hearts  and  true  !  not  one  went 

back  in  the  Mayflower  ! 
No,  not  one  looked  back,  who  had  set  his 

hand  to  this  ploughing  ! 

Soon  were  heard  on  board  the  shouts 
and  songs  of  the  sailors  no 

Heaving,  the  windlass  round,  and  hoisting 
the  ponderous  anchor. 

Then  the  yards  were  braced,  and  all  sails 
set  to  the  west-wind, 

Blowing  steady  and  strong;  and  the  May* 
flower  sailed  from  the  harbor, 

Rounded  the  point  of  the  Gurnet,  and  leav- 
ing far  to  the  southward 

Island  and  cape  of  sand,  and  the  Field  of 
the  First  Encounter, 

Took  the  wind  on  her  quarter,  and  stood 
for  the  open  Atlantic, 

Borne  on  the  send  of  the  sea,  and  the  swell- 
ing hearts  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Long  in  silence  they  watched  the  reced- 
ing sail  of  the  vessel, 
Much   endeared  to  them  all,  as  something 

living  and  human ; 
Then,  as  if  filled  with  the  spirit,  and  wrapt 

in  a  vision  prophetic,  .    130 

Baring  his  hoary  head,  the  excellent  Elder 

of  Plymouth 
Said,  '  Let  us  pray  ! '  and  they  prayed,  and 

thanked  the  Lord  and  took  courage. 
Mournfully   sobbed  the  waves  at  the  base 

of  the  rock,  and  above  them 
Bowed   and    whispered  the  wheat  on   the 

hill  of  death,  and  their  kindred 
Seemed  to   awake  in  their  graves,  and  to 

join    in   the   prayer   that   they   ut- 
tered. 
Sun-illumined  and   white,   on  the  eastern 

verge  of  the  ocean 
Gleamed  the  departing  sail,  like  a  marble 

slab  in  a  graveyard; 
Buried  beneath  it  lay  forever  all  hope  of 

escaping. 
Lo  !  as  they  turned  to  depart,  they  saw  the 

form  of  an  Indian. 


HENRY    WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


225 


Watching  them  from  the  hill;  but  while 
they  spake  with  each  other,  140 

Pointing  with  outstretched  hands,  and  say- 
ing, '  Look  ! '  he  had  vanished. 

So  they  returned  to  their  homes ;  but  Alden 
lingered  a  little, 

Musing  alone  on  the  shore,  and  watching 
the  wash  of  the  billows 

Round  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  the  sparkle 
and  flash  of  the  sunshine, 

Like  the  spirit  of  God,  moving  visibly  over 
the  waters. 


VI 


THUS  for  a  while  he  stood,  and  mused  by 

the  shore  of  the  ocean, 
Thinking  of  many  things,  and  most  of  all 

of  Priscilla; 
And  as  if  thought  had  the  power  to  draw 

to  itself,  like  the  loadstone, 
Whatsoever  it  touches,  by  subtile  laws  of 

its  nature, 
Lo!  as  he  turned  to  depart,  Priscilla  was 

standing  beside  him. 

'  Are  you  so  much  offended,  you  will  not 

speak  to  me  ?  '  said  she. 
'  Am  I  so  much  to  blame,  that  yesterday, 

when  you  were  pleading 
Warmly  the  cause  of  another,  my   heart, 

impulsive  and  wayward, 
Pleaded  your  own,  and  spake  out,  forgetful 

perhaps  of  decorum  ? 
Certainly  you  can  forgive  me  for  speaking 

so  frankly,  for  saying  10 

What  I  ought  not  to  have  said,  yet  now  I 

can  never  unsay  it; 
For  there  are  moments  in  life,  when  the 

heart  is  so  full  of  emotion, 
That  if  by  chance  it  be  shaken,  or  into  its 

depths  like  a  pebble 
Drops  some  careless  word,  it  overflows,  and 

its  secret, 
Spilt  on  the  ground  like  water,  can  never 

be  gathered  together. 
Yesterday  I   was  shocked,  when  I   heard 

you  speak  of  Miles  Standish, 
Praising  his  virtues,  transforming  his  very 

defects  into  virtues, 
Praising  his  courage  and  strength,  and  even 

his  fighting  in  Flanders, 


As  if  by  fighting  alone  you  could  win  the 
heart  of  a  woman, 

Quite  overlooking  yourself  and  the  rest,  in 
exalting  your  hero.  20 

Therefore  I  spake  as  I  did,  by  an  irre- 
sistible impulse. 

You  will  forgive  me,  I  hope,  for  the  sake 
of  the  friendship  between  us, 

Which  is  too  true  and  too  sacred  to  be  so 
easily  broken!' 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the 
scholar,  the  friend  of  Miles  Stand- 
ish: 

'  I  was  not  angry  with  you,  with  myself 
alone  I  was  angry, 

Seeing  how  badly  I  managed  the  matter  I 
had  in  my  keeping.' 

'  No! '  interrupted  the  maiden,  with  answer 
prompt  and  decisive; 

'  No ;  you  were  angry  with  me,  for  speak- 
ing so  frankly  and  freely. 

It  was  wrong,  I  acknowledge;  for  it  is  the 
fate  of  a  woman 

Long  to  be  patient  and  silent,  to  wait  like 
a  ghost  that  is  speechless,  30 

Till  some  questioning  voice  dissolves  the 
spell  of  its  silence. 

Hence  is  the  inner  life  of  so  many  suffering 
women 

Sunless  and  silent  and  deep,  like  subter- 
ranean rivers 

Running  through  caverns  of  darkness,  un- 
heard, unseen,  and  unfruitful, 

Chafing  their  channels  of  stone,  with  end- 
less and  profitless  murmurs.' 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  young 
man,  the  lover  of  women: 

'  Heaven  forbid  it,  Priscilla;  and  truly  they 
seem  to  me  always 

More  like  the  beautiful  rivers  that  watered 
the  garden  of  Eden, 

More  like  the  river  Euphrates,  through 
deserts  of  Havilah  flowing, 

Filling  the  land  with  delight,  and  memories 
sweet  of  the  garden! '  <<> 

<  Ah,  by  these  words,  I  can  see,'  again  in- 
terrupted the  maiden, 

'  How  very  little  you  prize  me,  or  care  for 
what  I  am  saying. 

When  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  in  pain 
and  with  secret  misgiving, 

Frankly  I  speak  to  you,  asking  for  sympa- 
thy only  and  kindness, 

Straightway  yo\i  take  up  my  words,  that 
are  plain  and  direct  and  in  earnest. 


226 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Turn  them  away  from  their  meaning,  and 
answer  with  flattering  phrases. 

This  is  not  right,  is  not  just,  is  not  true  to 
the  best  that  is  in  you; 

For  I  know  and  esteem  you,  and  feel  that 
your  nature  is  noble, 

Lifting  mine  up  to  a  higher,  a  more  ethereal 
level. 

Therefore  I  value  your  friendship,  and  feel 
it  perhaps  the  more  keenly  50 

If  you  say  aught  that  implies  I  am  only  as 
one  among  many, 

If  you  make  use  of  those  common  and  com- 
plimentary phrases 

Most  men  think  so  fine,  in  dealing  and 
speaking  with  women, 

But  which  women  reject  as  insipid,  if  not 
as  insulting.' 

Mute  and  amazed   was  Alden;  and  lis- 
tened and  looked  at  Priscilla, 
Thinking  he  never  had  seen  her  more  fair, 

more  divine  in  her  beauty. 
He  who  but  yesterday  pleaded  so  glibly  the 

cause  of  another, 
Stood   there   embarrassed  and    silent,  and 

seeking  in  vain  for  an  answer. 
So  the  maiden  went  on,  and  little  divined 

or  imagined 
What  was  at  work  in  his  heart,  that  made 

him  so  awkward  and  speechless.     60 
4  Let  us,  then,  be  what  we  are,  and  speak 

what  we  think,  and  in  all  things 
Keep  ourselves  loyal  to  truth,  and  the  sa- 
cred professions  of  friendship. 
It  is  no  secret  I  tell  you,  nor  am  I  ashamed 

to  declare  it: 
I  have  liked  to  be  with  you,  to  see  you,  to 

speak  with  you  always. 
So  I  was  hurt  at  your  words,  and  a  little 

affronted  to  hear  you 
Urge  me  to  marry  your  friend,  though  he 

were  the  Captain  Miles  Standish. 
For  I  must  tell  you  the  truth:  much  more 

to  me  is  your  friendship 
Than  all  the  love  he  could  give,  were  he 

twice  the  hero  you  think  him.' 
Then  she  extended  her  hand,  and  Alden, 

who  eagerly  grasped  it, 
Felt  all  the  wounds  in  his  heart,  that  were 

aching  and  bleeding  so  sorely,         70 
Healed  by  the  touch  of  that  hand,  and  he 

said,  with  a  voice  full  of  feeling: 
'Yes,  we  must  ever  be  friends;  and  of  all 

who  offer  you  friendship 


Let  me  be  ever  the  first,  the  truest,  the 
nearest  and  dearest  ! ' 

Casting  a  farewell  look  at  the  glimmer- 
ing sail  of  the  Mayflower, 

Distant,  but  still  in  sight,  and  sinking  be- 
low the  horizon, 

Homeward  together  they  walked,  with  a 
strange,  indefinite  feeling, 

That  all  the  rest  had  departed  and  left 
them  alone  in  the  desert. 

But,  as  they  went  through  the  fields  in 
the  blessing  and  smile  of  the  sun- 
shine, 

Lighter  grew  their  hearts,  and  Priscilla 
said  very  archly: 

'  Now  that  our  terrible  Captain  has  gone 
in  pursuit  of  the  Indians,  80 

Where  he  is  happier  far  than  he  would  be 
commanding  a  household, 

You  may  speak  boldly,  and  tell  me  of  all 
that  happened  between  you, 

When  you  returned  last  night,  and  said 
how  ungrateful  you  found  me.' 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  and  told 
her  the  whole  of  the  story,  — 

Told  her  his  own  despair,  and  the  direful 
wrath  of  Miles  Standish. 

Whereat  the  maiden  smiled,  and  said  be- 
tween laughing  and  earnest, 

'  He  is  a  little  chimney,  and  heated  hot  in 
a  moment  ! ' 

But  as  he  gently  rebuked  her,  and  told  her 
how  he  had  suffered, — 

How  he  had  even  determined  to  sail  that 
day  in  the  Mayflower, 

And  had  remained  for  her  sake,  on  hearing 
the  dangers  that  threatened,  —  90 

All  her  manner  was  changed,  and  she  said 
with  a  faltering  accent, 

'  Truly  I  thank  you  for  this  :  how  good 
"  you  have  been  to  me  always  ! ' 

Thus,  as  a  pilgrim  devout,  who  toward 

Jerusalem  journeys, 
Taking  three  steps   in  advance,   and   one 

reluctantly  backward, 
Urged  by  importunate  zeal,  and  withheld 

t  pangs  of  contrition; 
t  steadily  onward,  receding  yet 
"  ever  advancing, 
Journeyed  this  Puritan  youth  to  the  Holy 

Land  of  his  longings, 

Urged  by  the  fervor  of  love,  and  witliheld 
by  remorseful  misgivings. 


HENRY   WADSVVORTH    LONGFELLOW 


227 


VII 

THE   MARCH   OF   MILES    STANDISH 

MEANWHILE  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish 
was  marching  steadily  northward, 

Winding  through  forest  and  swamp,  and 
along  the  trend  of  the  sea-shore, 

All  day  long,  with  hardly  a  halt,  the  fire  of 
his  anger 

Burning  and  crackling  within,  and  the  sul- 

Seeming  more  sweet  to  his  nostrils  than  all 

the  scents  of  the  forest. 
Silent  and  moody  he  went,  and  much  he 

revolved  his  discomfort; 
He  who  was  used  to  success,  and  to  easy 

victories  always, 
Thus  to  be  flouted,  rejected,  and  laughed 

to  scorn  by  a  maiden, 
Thus  to  be  mocked  and  betrayed  by  the 

friend  whom  most  he  had  trusted  ! 
Ah  !  't  was  too  much  to  be  borne,  and  he 

fretted  and  chafed  in  his  armor  !    10 

'I  alone  am  to  blame,'  he  muttered, 
'  for  mine  was  the  folly. 

What  has  a  rough  old  soldier,  grown  grim 
and  gray  in  the  harness, 

Used  to  the  camp  and  its  ways,  to  do  with 
the  wooing  of  maidens  ? 

'T  was  but  a  dream,  —  let  it  pass,  —  let  it 
vanish  like  so  many  others  ! 

What  I  thought  was  a  flower,  is  only  a 
weed,  and  is  worthless; 

Out  of  my  heart  will  I  pluck  it,  and  throw 
it  away,  and  henceforward 

Be  but  a  fighter  of  battles,  a  lover  and 
wooer  of  dangers  !  ' 

Thus  he  revolved  in  his  mind  his  sorry  de- 
feat and  discomfort, 

While  he  was  marching  by  day  or  lying  at 
night  in  the  forest, 

Looking  up  at  the  trees,  and  the  constella- 
tions beyond  them.  20 

After  a  three  days'  march  he  came  to  an 
Indian  encampment 

Pitched  on  the  edge  of  a  meadow,  between 
the  sea  and  the  forest; 

Women  at  work  by  the  tents,  and  warriors, 
horrid  with  war-paint, 

Seated  about  a  fire,  and  smoking  and  talk- 
ing together; 

Who,  when  they  saw  from  afar  the  sudden 
approach  of  the  white  men, 


Saw  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  breastplate  and 

sabre  and  musket, 
Straightway  leaped  to  their  feet,  and  two, 

from  among  them  advancing, 
Came  to  parley  with  Standish,  and  offer  him 

furs  as  a  present; 
Friendship  was  in  their  looks,  but  in  their 

hearts  there  was  hatred. 
Braves  of  the  tribe  were  these,  and  brothers, 

gigantic  in  stature,  30 

Huge  as  Goliath  of  Gath,  or  the  terrible 

Og,  king  of  Bashan; 
One  was   Pecksuot  named,  and  the  other 

was  called  Wattawamat. 
Round  their  necks  were    suspended   their 

knives  in  scabbards  of  wampum, 
Two-edged,  trenchant  knives,  with  points  as 

sharp  as  a  needle. 
Other  arms  had  they  none,  for  they  were 

cunning  and  crafty. 
'  Welcome,   English  !  '   they   said,  —  these 

words   they  had    learned   from  the 

traders 
Touching  at  times  on  the  coast,  to  barter 

and  chaffer  for  peltries. 
Then  in  their  native  tongue  they  began  to 

parley  with  Standish, 
Through  his -guide  and  interpreter,  Hobo- 

mok,  friend  of  the  white  man, 
Begging  for  blankets  and  knives,  but  mostly 

for  muskets  and  powder,  4o 

Kept   by  the  white    man,  they   said,  con- 
cealed, with  the  plague,  in  his  cellars, 
Ready  to   be    let   loose,    and   destroy   his 

brother  the  red  man  ! 
But  when  Standish   refused,  and   said  he 

would  give  them  the  Bible, 
Suddenly  changing  their  tone,  they  began 

tc  boast  and  to  bluster. 
Then  Wattawamat  advanced  with  a  stride 

in  front  of  the  other, 
And,  with  a  lofty  demeanor,  thus  vaunt- 

ingly  spake  to  the  Captain: 
'Now  Wattawamat   can  see,  by  the  fiery 

eyes  of  the  Captain, 
Angry  is  he  in  his  heart;  but  the  heart  of 

the  brave  Wattawamat 
Is  not  afraid  at  the    sight.     He  was   not 

born  of  a  woman, 

But  on  a  mountain  at  night,  from  an  oak- 
tree  riven  by  lightning,  50 
Forth  he  sprang  at  a  bound,  with  all  his 

weapons  about  him, 
Shouting,  "  Who  is  there  here  to  fight  with 

the  brave  Wattawamat  ?  " ' 


228 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Then  he  unsheathed  his  knife,  and,  whet- 
ting the  blade  on  his  left  hand, 

Held  it  aloft  and  displayed  a  woman's  face 
on  the  handle; 

Saying,  with  bitter  expression  and  look  of 
sinister  meaning: 

'  I  have  another  at  home,  with  the  face  of 
a  man  on  the  handle; 

By  and  by  they  shall  marry;  and  there 
will  be  plenty  of  children  ! ' 

Then  stood  Pecksuot  forth,  self -vaunting, 
insulting  Miles  Standish  : 

While  with  his  fingers  he  patted  the  knife 
that  hung  at  his  bosom, 

Drawing  it  half  from  its  sheath,  and  plung- 
ing it  back,  as  he  muttered,  60 

'  By  and  by  it  shall  see;  it  shall  eat;  ah,  ha  ! 
but  shall  speak  not ! 

This  is  the  mighty  Captain  the  white  men 
have  sent  to  destroy  us  ! 

He  is  a  little  man;  let  him  go  and  work 
with  the  women  ! ' 

Meanwhile  Standish  had  noted  the  faces 
and  figures  of  Indians 

Peeping  and  creeping  about  from  bush  to 
tree  in  the  forest, 

Feigning  to  look  for  game,  with  arrows  set 
on  their  bow-strings, 

Drawing  about  him  still  closer  and  closer 
the  net  of  their  ambush. 

But  undaunted  he  stood,  and  dissembled 
and  treated  them  smoothly; 

So  the  old  chronicles  say,  that  were  writ  in 
the  days  of  the  fathers. 

But  when  he  heard  their  defiance,  the  boast, 
the  taunt,  and  the  insult,  70 

All  the  hot  blood  of  his.race,  of  Sir  Hugh 
and  of  Thurston  de  Standish, 

Boiled  and  beat  in  his  heart,  and  swelled  in 
the  veins  of  his  temples. 

Headlong  he  leaped  on  the  boaster,  and, 
snatching  his  knife  from  its  scab- 
bard, 

Plunged  it  into  his  heart,  and,  reeling  back- 
ward, the  savage 

Fell  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  and  a  fiend- 
like  fierceness  upon  it. 

Straight  there  arose  from  the  forest  the 
awful  sound  of  the  war-whoop. 

And,  like  a  flurry  of  snow  on  the  whistling 
wind  of  December, 

Swift  and  sudden  and  keen  came  a  flight  of 
feathery  arrows. 


Then  came  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  out  of  the 

cloud  came  the  lightning, 
Out  of  the  lightning  thunder;  and  death  un- 
seen ran  before  it.  80 
Frightened  the  savages  fled  for  shelter  in 

swamp  and  in  thicket, 
Hotly  pursued  and  beset;  but  their  sachem, 

the  brave  Wattawamat, 
Fled  not ;  he  was  dead.     Unswerving  and 

swift  had  a  bullet 
Passed  through  his  brain,  and  he  fell  with 

both  hands  clutching  the  greensward, 
Seeming  in  death  to  hold  back  from  his  foe 

the  land  of  his  fathers. 

There  on  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  the 
warriors  lay,  and  above  them, 

Silent,  with  folded  arms,  stood  Hobomok, 
friend  of  the  white  man. 

Smiling  at  length  he  exclaimed  to  the  stal- 
wart Captain  of  Plymouth:  — 

'  Pecksuot  bragged  very  loud,  of  his  cour- 
age, his  strength,  and  his  stature,  — 

Mocked  the  great  Captain,  and  called  him 
a  little  man ;  but  I  see  now  90 

Big  enough  have  you  been  to  lay  him 
speechless  before  you  ! ' 

Thus  the  first  battle  was  fought  and  won 

by  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish. 
When  the  tidings  thereof  were  brought  to 

the  village  of  Plymouth, 
And  as  a  trophy  of  war  the  head  of   the 

brave  Wattawamat 
Scowled  from  the  roof  of  the  fort,  which  at 

once  was  a  church  and  a  fortress, 
All  who  beheld  it  rejoiced,  and  praised  the 

Lord,  and  took  courage. 
Only  Priscilla  averted  her  face  from  this 

spectre  of  terror, 
Thanking  God  in  her  heart  that  she  had  not 

married  Miles  Standish; 
Shrinking,     fearing    almost,    lest,  coming 

home  from  his  battles, 
He  should  lay  claim  to  her  hand,  as  the 

prize  and  reward  of  his  valor.        100 


VIII 
THE    SPINNING-WHEEL 

MONTH  after  month  passed  away,  and  in 
autumn  the  ships  of  the  merchants 

Came  with  kindred  and  friends,  with  cattle 
and  corn  for  the  Pilgrims. 


HENRY    WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


229 


All  in  the  village  was  peace;  the  men  were 
intent  on  their  labors, 

Busy  with  hewing  and  building,  with  gar- 
den-plot and  with  merestead, 

Busy  with  breaking  the  glebe,  and  mowing 
the  grass  in  the  meadows, 

Searching  the  sea  for  its  fish,  and  hunting 
the  deer  in  the  forest. 

All  in  the  village  was  peace ;  but  at  times 
the  rumor  of  warfare 

Filled  the  air  with  alarm,  and  the  appre- 
hension of  danger. 

Bravely  the  stalwart  Standish  was  scouring 
the  land  with  his  forces, 

Waxing  valiant  in  fight  and  defeating  the 
alien  armies,  u 

Till  his  name  had  become  a  sound  of  fear 
to  the  nations. 

Anger  was  still  in  his  heart,  but  at  times 
the  remorse  and  contrition 

Which  in  all  noble  natures  succeed  the  pas- 
sionate outbreak, 

Came  like  a  rising  tide,  that  encounters  the 
rush  of  a  river, 

Staying  its  current  awhile,  but  making  it 
bitter  and  brackish. 

Meanwhile  Alden  at  home  had  built  him 
a  new  habitation, 

Solid,  substantial,  of  timber  rough -hewn 
from  the  firs  of  the  forest. 

Wooden-barred  was  the  door,  and  the  roof 
was  covered  with  rushes: 

Latticed  the  windows  were,  and  the  win- 
dow-panes were  of  paper, 

Oiled  to  admit  the  light,  while  wind  and 
rain  were  excluded.  20 

There  too  he  dug  a  well,  and  around  it 
planted  an  orchard: 

Still  may  be  seen  to  this  day  some  trace  of 
the  well  and  the  orchard. 

Close  to  the  house  was  the  stall,  where,  safe 
and  secure  from  annoyance, 

Raghorn,  the  snow-white  bull,  that  had 
fallen  to  Alden's  allotment 

In  the  division  of  cattle,  might  ruminate  in 
the  night-time 

Over  the  pastures  he  cropped,  made  fra- 
grant by  sweet  pennyroyal. 

Oft  when  his   labor    was  finished,  with 

eager  feet  would  the  dreamer 
Follow    the    pathway    that    ran   through 
the   woods   to   the   house   of   Pris- 
cilla, 


Led    by    illusions    romantic    and    subtile 

deceptions  of  fancy, 
Pleasure  disguised  as  duty,  and  love  in  the 

semblance  of  friendship.  3o 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  fashioned 

the  walls  of  his  dwelling; 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  delved 

in  the  soil  of  his  garden; 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  read  in 

his  Bible  on  Sunday 
Praise   of  the  virtuous  woman,  as  she  is 

described  in  the  Proverbs,  — 
How  the  heart  of  her  husband  doth  safely 

trust  in  her  always, 
How  all  the  days  of  her  life  she  will  do  him 

good,  and  not  evil, 
How  she  seeketh  the  wool  and  the  flax  and 

worketh  with  gladness, 
How  she  layeth  her  hand  to  the  spindle  and 

holdeth  the  distaff, 

How  she  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  her- 
self or  her  household, 
Knowing  her  household  are  clothed  with 

the  scarlet  cloth  of  her  weaving  !  4o 

So  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel  one  afternoon 

in  the  Autumn, 
Alden,  who  opposite  sat,  and  was  watching 

her  dexterous  fingers, 
As  if  the  thread  she  was  spinning  were  that 

of  his  life  and  his  fortune, 
After  a  pause  in  their  talk,  thus  spake  to 

the  sound  of  the  spindle. 
'  Truly,  Priscilla,'   he    said,   '  when  I    see 

you  spinning  and  spinning, 
Never   idle    a    moment,    but   thrifty  and 

thoughtful  of  others, 
Suddenly  you  are  transformed,  are  visibly 

changed  in  a  moment ; 
You   are   no  longer   Priscilla,  but  Bertha 

the  Beautiful  Spinner.' 
Here  the  light  foot  on  the  treadle  grew 

swifter  and  swifter;  the  spindle 
Uttered   an  angry  snarl,  and   the   thread 

snapped  short  in  her  fingers;  50 

While  the  impetuous  speaker,  not  heeding 

the  mischief,  continued: 
'  You  are  the  beautiful  Bertha,  the  spinner, 

the  queen  of  Helvetia; 
She   whose   story  I  read  at  a  stall  in  the 

streets  of  Southampton, 
Who,  as  she    rode    on   her   palfrey,   o'er 

valley  and  meadow  and  mountain, 
Ever  was  spinning  her  thread  from  a  distaff 

fixed  to  her  saddle. 


230 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


She  was  so  thrifty  and  good,  that  her  name 
passed  into  a  proverb. 

So  shall  it  be  with  your  own,  when  the 
spinning-wheel  shall  no  longer 

Hum  in  the  house  of  the  farmer,  and  fill 
its  chambers  with  music. 

Then  shall  the  mothers,  reproving,  relate 
how  it  was  in  their  childhood, 

Praising  the  good  old  times,  and  the  days 
of  Priscilla  the  spinner  ! '  60 

Straight  uprose  from  her  wheel  the  beau- 
tiful Puritan  maiden, 

Pleased  with  the  praise  of  her  thrift  from 
him  whose  praise  was  the  sweetest, 

Drew  from  the  reel  on  the  table  a  snowy 
skein  of  her  spinning, 

Thus  making  answer,  meanwhile,  to  the 
flattering  phrases  of  Alden; 

'Come,  you  must  not  be  idle;  if  I  am  a 
pattern  for  housewives, 

Show  yourself  equally  worthy  of  being  the 
model  of  husbands. 

Hold  this  skein  on  your  hands,  while  I  wind 
it,  ready  for  knitting; 

Then  who  knows  but  hereafter,  when  fash- 
ions have  changed  and  the  manners, 

Fathers  may  talk  to  their  sons  of  the  good 
old  times  of  John  Alden  ! ' 

Thus,  with  a  jest  and  a  laugh,  the  skein  on 
his  hands  she  adjusted,  7o 

He,,  sitting  awkwardly  there,  with  his  arms 
extended  before  him, 

She,  standing  graceful,  erect,  and  winding 
the  thread  from  his  fingers, 

Sometimes  chiding  a  little  his  clumsy  man- 
ner of  holding, 

Sometimes  touching  his  hands,  as  she  dis- 
entangled expertly 

Twist  or  knot  in  the  yarn,  unawares  —  for 
how  could  she  help  it  ?  — 

Sending  electrical  thrills  through  every 
nerve  in  his  body. 

Lo  !  in  the  midst  of  this  scene,  a  breath- 
less messenger  entered, 

Bringing  in  hurry  and  heat  the  terrible 
news  from  the  village. 

Yes ;  Miles  Standish  was  dead  !  —  an  Indian 
had  brought  them  the  tidings,  — 

Slam  by  a  poisoned  arrow,  shot  down  in  the 
front  of  the  battle,  80 

Into  an  ambush  beguiled,  cut  off  with  the 
whole  of  his  forces; 

All  the  town  would  be  burned,  and  all  the 
people  be  murdered  ! 


Such  were  the  tidings  of  evil  that  burst  on 

the  hearts  of  the  hearers. 
Silent  and  statue-like  stood  Priscilla,  her 

face  looking  backward 
Still  at  the  face  of  the  speaker,  her  arms 

uplifted  in  horror; 
But  John  Alden,  upstarting,  as  if  the  barb 

of  the  arrow 
Piercing  the  heart  of  his  friend  had  struck 

his  own,  and  had  sundered 
Once  and  forever  the  bonds  that  held  him 

bound  as  a  captive, 
Wild  with  excess  of  sensation,  the  awful 

delight  of  his  freedom, 
Mingled  with  pain  and  regret,  unconscious 

of  what  he  was  doing,  90 

Clasped,  almost  with  a  groan,  the  motion- 
less form  of  Priscilla, 
Pressing  her  close  to  his  heart,  as  forever 

his  own,  and  exclaiming: 
'  Those  whom  the  Lord  hath  united,  let  no 

man  put  them  asunder  ! ' 

Even  as  rivulets  twain,  from  distant  and 
separate  sources, 

Seeing  each  other  afar,  as  they  leap  from 
the  rocks,  and  pursuing 

Each  one  its  devious  path,  but  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer, 

Rush  together  at  last,  at  their  trysting-place 
in  the  forest; 

So  these  lives  that  had  run  thus  far  in  sep- 
arate channels, 

Coming  in  sight  of  each  other,  then  swerv- 
ing and  flowing  asunder, 

Parted  by  barriers  strong,  but  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer,  100 

Rushed  together  at  last,  and  one  was  lost 
in  the  other. 


IX 


THE   WEDDING-DAY 

FORTH  from  the  curtain  of  clouds,  from  the 

tent  of  purple  and  scarlet, 
Issued  the  sun,  the  great  High-Priest,  in 

his  garments  resplendent, 
Holiness  unto  the  Lord,  in  letters  of  light, 

on  his  forehead, 
Round  the  hem  of  his  robe  the  golden  bells 

.  and  pomegranates. 
Blessing  the  world  he  came,  and  the  bars 

of  vapor  beneath  him 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH    LONGFELLOW 


Gleamed  like  a  grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea 
at  his  feet  was  a  laver  ! 

This  was  the  wedding  morn  of  Priscilla 
the  Puritan  maiden. 

Friends  were  assembled  together;  the  Elder 
and  Magistrate  also 

Graced  the  scene  with  their  presence,  and 
stood  like  the  Law  and  the  Gospel, 

One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one  with 
the  blessing  of  heaven.  10 

Simple  and  brief  was  the  wedding,  as  that 
of  Ruth  and  of  Boaz. 

Softly  the  youth  and  the  maiden  repeated 
the  words  of  betrothal, 

Taking  each  other  for  husband  and  wife  in 
the  Magistrate's  presence, 

After  the  Puritan  way,  and  the  laudable 
custom  of  Holland. 

Fervently  then,  and  devoutly,  the  excellent 
Elder  of  Plymouth 

Prayed  for  the  hearth  and  the  home,  that 
were  founded  that  day  in  affec- 
tion, 

Speaking  of  life  and  of  death,  and  implor- 
ing Divine  benedictions. 

Lo  !  when  the  service  was  ended,  a  form 
appeared  on  the  threshold, 

Clad  in  armor  of  steel,  a  sombre  and  sor- 
rowful figure  ! 

Why  does  the  bridegroom  start  and  stare 
at  the  strange  apparition  ?  20 

Why  does  the  bride  turn  pale,  and  hide  her 
face  on  his  shoulder  ? 

Is  it  a  phantom  of  air,  —  a  bodiless,  spec- 
tral illusion  ? 

Is  it  a  ghost  from  the  grave,  that  has  come 
to  forbid  the  betrothal  ? 

Long  had  it  stood  there  unseen,  a  guest  un- 
invited, unwelcomed; 

Over  its  clouded  eyes  there  had  passed  at 
times  an  expression 

Softening  the  gloom  and  revealing  the  warm 
heart  hidden  beneath  them, 

As  when  across  the  sky  the  driving  rack  of 
the  rain-cloud 

Grows  for  a  moment  thin,  and  betrays  the 
sun  by  its  brightness. 

Once  it  had  lifted  its  hand,  and  moved  its 
lips,  but  was  silent, 

As  if  an  iron  will  had  mastered  the  fleeting 
intention.  30 

But  when  were  ended  the  troth  and  the 
prayer  and  the  last  benediction, 


Into  the  room  it  strode,  and  the  people  be- 
held with  amazement 
Bodily  there  in  his  armor  Miles  Standish, 

the  Captain  of  Plymouth  ! 
Grasping  the  bridegroom's   hand,  he   said 

with  emotion,  '  Forgive  me  ! 
I  have  been  angry  and  hurt,  —  too  long  have 

I  cherished  the  feeling; 
I  have  been  cruel  and  hard,  but  now,  thank 

God  !  it  is  ended. 
Mine  is  the  same  hot  blood  that  leaped  in 

the  veins  of  Hugh  Staudish, 
Sensitive,  swift  to  resent,  but  as  swift  in 

atoning  for  error. 
Never  so  much  as  now  was  Miles  Standish 

the  friend  of  John  Alden.' 
Thereupon  answered  the  bridegroom :  '  Let 

all  be  forgotten  between  us,  —       40 
All  save  the  dear  old  friendship,  and  that 

shall  grow  older  and  dearer  ! ' 
Then  the  Captain  advanced,  and,  bowing, 

saluted  Priscilla, 

Gravely,  and  after  the  manner  of  old-fash- 
ioned gentry  in  England, 
Something  of  camp  and  of  court,  of  town 

and  of  country,  commingled, 
Wishing  her  joy  of  her  wedding,  and  loudly 

lauding  her  husband. 
Then  he  said  with  a  smile :  '  I  should  have 

remembered  the  adage,  — 
If  you  would  be  well  served,  you  must  serve 

yourself;  and  moreover, 
No  man  can  gather  cherries  in  Kent  at  the 

season  of  Christmas  ! ' 

Great  was  the  people's  amazement,  and 

greater  yet  their  rejoicing, 
Thus  to  behold  once  more  the  sunburnt  face 

of  their  Captain,  50 

Whom  they  had  mourned  as  dead;  and  they 

gathered  and  crowded  about  him, 
Eager  to  see  him  and  hear  him,  forgetful 

of  bride  and  of  bridegroom, 
Questioning,  answering,  laughing,  ajid  each 

interrupting  the  other, 
Till  the  good  Captain  declared,  being  quite 

overpowered  and  bewildered, 
He  had  rather  by  far  break  into  an  Indian 

encampment, 
Than  come  again  to  a  wedding  to  which  he 

had  not  been  invited. 

Meanwhile  the  bridegroom  went  forth 
and  stood  with  the  bride  at  the  door- 
way, 


232 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Breathing  the  perfumed  air  of  that  warm 

and  beautiful  morning. 
Touched   with  autumnal   tints,  but  lonely 

and  sad  in  the  sunshine, 
Lay  extended  before  them  the  land  of  toil 

and  privation;  60 

There  were  the  graves  of  the  dead,  and  the 

barren  waste  of  the  sea-shore, 
There   the  familiar  fields,   the   groves  of 

pine,  and  the  meadows; 
But  to  their  eyes  transfigured,  it  seemed 

as  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
Filled  with   the   presence  of  God,  whose 

voice  was  the  sound  of  the  ocean. 

Soon  was  their  vision  disturbed  by  the 
noise  and  stir  of  departure, 

Friends  coming  forth  from  the  house,  and 
impatient  of  longer  delaying, 

Each  with  his  plan  for  the  day,  and  the 
work  that  was  left  uncompleted. 

Then  from  a  stall  near  at  hand,  amid  ex- 
clamations of  wonder, 

Alden  the  thoughtful,  the  careful,  so  happy, 
so  proud  of  Priscilla, 

Brought  out  his  snow-white  bull,  obeying 
the  hand  of  its  master,  70 

Led  by  a  cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron  ring 
in  its  nostrils, 

Covered  with  crimson  cloth,  and  a  cushion 
placed  for  a  saddle. 

She  should  not  walk,  he  said,  through 
the  dust  and  heat  of  the  noon- 
day; 

Nay,  she  should  ride  like  a  queen,  not  plod 
along  like  a  peasant. 

Somewhat  alarmed  at  first,  bvt  reassured 
by  the  others, 


Placing  her  hand  on  the  cushion,  her  foot 

in  the  hand  of  her  husband, 
Gayly,  with  joyous  laugh,  Priscilla  mounted 

her  palfrey. 
'  Nothing  is  wanting  now,'  he  said  with  a 

smile,  '  but  the  distaff; 
Then  you  would  be  in  truth  my  queen,  my 

beautiful  Bertha ! ' 

Onward  the  bridal  procession  now  moved 
to  their  new  habitation,  So 

Happy  husband  and  wife,  and  friends  con- 
versing together. 

Pleasantly  murmured  the  brook,  as  they 
crossed  the  ford  in  the  forest, 

Pleased  with  the  image  that  passed,  like  a 
dream  of  love,  through  its  bosom, 

Tremulous,  floating  in  air,  o'er  the  depths 
of  the  azure  abysses. 

Down  through  the  golden  leaves  the  sun 
was  pouring  his  splendors, 

Gleaming  on  purple  grapes,  that,  from 
branches  above  them  suspended, 

Mingled  their  odorous  breath  with  the 
balm  of  the  pine  and  the  fir-tree, 

Wild  and  sweet  as  the  clusters  that  grew 
in  the  valley  of  Eshcol. 

Like  a  picture  it  seemed  of  the  primitive, 


Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  re- 
calling Rebecca  and  Isaac,  90 

Old  and  yet  ever  new,  and  simple  and 
beautiful  always, 

Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless 
succession  of  lovers. 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  passed  on- 
ward the  bridal  procession. 

1857-58.  1858. 


THE   CHILDREN'S    HOUR1 

BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

1  The  ideal  commentary  on  this  poem  is  found  in  a 

letter  of  Longfellow's  '  To  Emily  A ,'  August  18, 

1859: 

'  Your  letter  followed  me  down  here  by  the  seaside, 
where  I  am  passing  the  summer  with  my  three  little 
girls.  The  oldest  is  about  your  age  ;  but  as  little  girls' 
ages  keep  changing  every  year,  I  can  never  remember 
exactly  how  old  she  is,  and  have  to  ask  her  mamma, 
who  has  a  better  memory  than  I  have.  Her  name  is 
Alice ;  I  never  forget  that.  She  is  a  nice  girl,  and 
loves  poetry  almost  as  much  as  you  do. 

'  The  second  is  Edith,  with  blue  e3'es  and  beautiful 


Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 


golden  locks  which  I  sometimes  call  her  "nankeen 
hair  "  to  make  her  laugh.  She  is  a  very  busy  little 
woman,  and  wears  gray  boots. 

'  The  youngest  is  Allegra ;  which,  you  know,  means 
merry ;  and  she  is  the  merriest  little  thing  you  ever 
saw,  — always  singing  and  laughing  all  over  the 
house.  .  .  . 

'  I  do  not  say  anything  about  the  two  boys.  They 
are  such  noisy  fellows  it  is  of  no  use  to  talk  about 
them.'  (Life,  vol.  ii.  pp.  392-93.) 

Longfellow  and  Victor  Hugo  may  perhaps  be  called 
the  two  greatest  poets  of  childhood,  and  Victor  Hugo's 
letters  to  his  own  children  are  strikingly  like  the  one 
just  quoted. 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW 


233 


1  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair,         10 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence: 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall  ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 

They  enter  my  castle  wall !  20 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine  ! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall,  30 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 

t  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  !  4o 

1859.  1860. 


PAUL   REVERE'S    RIDE1 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

1  It  is  possible  that  Mr.  Longfellow  derived  the  story 
from  Paul  Revere's  account  of  the  incident  in  a  letter 
to  Dr.  Jeremy  Belknap,  printed  in  Mass.  Hist.  Coll.  V. 
Mr.  Frothingham,  in  his  Siege  of  Boston,  pp.  57-59, 
gives  the  story  mainly  according  to  a  memorandum  of 
Richard  Devens,  Revere's  friend  and  associate.  The 
publication  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  poem  called  out  a  pro- 
tracted discussion  both  as  to  the  church  from  which 


On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five; 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 
He  said  to  his  friend,  '  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of   the   North  Church  tower  as  a  signal 

light,— 

One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea;  w 

And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm.' 

Then    he    said,   *  Good-night ! '    and   with 

muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar  20 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and 

street, 

Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore.  30 

the  signals  were  hung,  and  as  to  the  friend  who  hung 
the  lanterns.  The  subject  is  discussed  and  authorities 
cited  in  Memorial  History  of  Boston,  iii,  101.  (Cam- 
bridge Edition,  p.  6C8.) 

'  Paul  Revere's  Ride  '  is  the  first  story  in  the  Tales 
of  a  Wayside  Inn,  a  series  of  tales  in  verse  set  in  a 
frame-work  something  like  that  of  Chaucer's  Canter- 
bury Tales,  and  supposed  to  be  told  by  a  group  of 
friends  gathered  at  the  Red-Horse  Inn  at  Sudbury, 
about  twenty  miles  from  Cambridge.  The  story  of 
Paul  Revere  is  told  by  the  landlord,  whose  portrait  is 
thus  drawn  in  the  '  Prelude  : '  — 

But  first  the  Landlord  will  I  trace  ; 

Grave  in  his  aspect  and  attire  ; 

A  man  of  ancient  pedigree, 

A  Justice  of  the  Peace  was  he. 

Known  in  all  Sudbury  as  •  The  Squire.* 

Proud  was  he  of  his  name  and  race, 

Of  old  Sir  William  and  Sir  Hugh, 

And  in  the  parlor,  full  in  view, 

His  coat-of-arms,  well  framed  and  glazed, 

Upon  the  wall  in  colors  blazed  ; 

He  beareth  gules  upon  his  shield, 

A  chevron  argent  in  the  field, 

With  three  wolf's-heads,  and  for  the  crest 

A  wyvern  part-per-pale  addressed 

~^on  a  helmet  barred  ;  below 


tTpon  a  helmet  barred  ;  below 

The  scroll  reads,  •  By  the  name  of  Howe. 

And  over  this,  no  longer  bright. 

Though  glimmering  witn  a  latent  light. 

Was  hung  the  sword  his  grandsire  bore 

In  the  rebellious  days  of  yore, 

Down  there  in  Concord  in  the  fight. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North 

Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On   the    sombre    rafters,  that   round   him 


Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town,          4o 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 
And  seeming  to  whisper,  '  All  is  well ! ' 
A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 
Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret 
dread  So 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead; 
For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 
A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side,  60 

Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the   saddle,   the    bridle   he 
turns,  7o 

But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns  ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing, 

a  spark 
Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and 

fleet; 


That  was  all  !  And  yet,  through  the  gloom 

and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in 

his  flight, 
Kindled  the  laud  into  flame  with  its  heat.  So 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the 

steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and 

deep, 

Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides; 
And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the   sand,  now  loud  on  the 

ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides.. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford 

town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 
And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog,        90 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and 

bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At     the     bloody    work   they    would   look 

upon.  ,00 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord 

town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 
And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball.  no 

You  know  the  rest.    In  the  books  you  have 

read, 

How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled,  — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


235 


Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 
And  so  through  the  night .  went  his  cry  of 

alarm  120 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 
A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore  ! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 
And     the     midnight    message    of      Paul 

Revere.  no 


THE   CUMBERLAND 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 
On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of- 

war; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the 

bay 

The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course          ic 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  m  a  full  broadside  !         20 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

*  Strike  your  flag  ! '  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 

*  Never  ! '  our  gallant  Morris  replies ; 


'  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield  ! ' 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men.  3o 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day  ! 

Every  waft  of  the  air  40 

Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the 

seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream; 
Ho  !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam  ! 
1862.  1862. 


THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH  l 

IT  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the 

land 
The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  building 

sing 

Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  his  hand, 
Whom  Saxon  Cajdmon  calls  the  Blithe 

heart  King; 

When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  ex- 
pand, 

1  The  last  story  in  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  First  Se- 
ries, and  the  only  one  of  those  '  tales '  which  was  almost 
wholly  original  with  Longfellow.  There  is  a  slight  foun- 
dation for  it,  in  the  history  of  the  town  of  Killingworth 
in  Connecticut.  The  Cambridge  Edition  of  Longfellow 
quotes  a  letter  of  Mr.  Henry  Hull,  who,  writing  from 
personal  recollection,  says :  — 

'  The  men  of  the  northern  part  of  the  town  did  yearly 
in  the  spring  choose  two  leaders,  and  then  the  two 
sides  were  formed  :  the  side  that  got  beaten  should  pay 
the  bills.  Their  special  game  was  the  hawk,  the  owl, 
the  crow,  the  blackbird,  and  any  other  bird  supposed 
to  be  mischievous  to  the  corn.  Some  years  each  side 
would  bring  them  in  by  the  bushel.  This  was  followed 
up  for  only  a  few  years,  for  the  birds  began  to  grow 
scarce.' 

In  this  poem,  for  once,  Longfellow  enters  a  field  pe- 
culiarly belonging  to  Lowell :  the  half-humorous  treat- 
ment of  New  England  country  life. 

Emerson  considered  it  the  best  of  the  Tales,  and 
called  it  (perhaps  with  a  little  exaggeration  !),  '  Serene 
happy,  and  immortal  as  Chaucer.' 


236 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


The   banners  of  the   vanguard  of    the 

Spring, 

And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 
And  wave  their  fluttering  signals  from  the 

steep. 

The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping  loud, 
Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with 
their  glee ;  J0 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were 

proud 

Their  race  in  Holy  Writ   should  men- 
tioned be; 
And  hungry  crows,  assembled  in  a  crowd, 

Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  incessantly, 
Knowing  who   hears  the  ravens  cry,  and 

said: 

'  Give  us,   O   Lord,   this    day,   our   daily 
bread ! ' 

Across   the   Sound   the   birds   of  passage 

sailed, 
Speaking  some  unknown  language  strange 

and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 
The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their 
fleet;  20 

Or  quarrelling  together,  laughed  and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 
Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 
Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls  and 
boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killing- 
worth, 
In  fabulous  days,  some   hundred   years 

ago; 
And   thrifty   farmers,  as    they   tilled   the 

earth, 

Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 
That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 

Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe;     30 
They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with 

dreadful  words 

To   swift   destruction   the  whole   race   of 
birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straight- 
way 

To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 

Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds 
And  cornfields,  and  beheld  without  dismay 
The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering 
ahreds; 


The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast, 
Whereby   their    sinful    pleasure   was    in- 
creased. 4o 

Then   from   his   house,  a   temple   painted 

white, 

With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red, 
The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splen- 
did sight ! 

Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 
Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor 

right, 
Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one 

who  said, 

'  A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 
Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society  ! ' 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 

The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to  kill ;  s& 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year 

to  year, 
And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the 

Will; 
His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 

In  summer  on  some  Adirondac  hill; 
E'en  now,  while   walking  down  the  rural 

lane, 
He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his  cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 
Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green 
grass,  60 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 

Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door, 
In   his  voluminous  neck-cloth,  white  as 

snow; 
A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore; 

His   form  was  ponderous,  and   his  step 

was  slow; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before; 
He  seemed  the  incarnate  '  Well,  I  told 
you  so ! '  70 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 
There   was  a  street   named   after  him  in 
town. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry   farmers   from  the  region 
round. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


23? 


The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 
His   air   impressive   and    his   reasoning 

sound; 
111  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and 

small; 
Hardly  a  frieiid  in  all  that  crowd  they 

found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 
Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath 

the  sun.  80 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart 
Rose    the     Preceptor,    to     redress    the 

wrong, 
And,  trembling  like   a  steed   before   the 

start, 

Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  expect- 
ant throng; 
Then   thought   of   fair   Almira,  and   took 

heart 
To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and 

strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 
And  quite  determined  not  to  be   laughed 
down. 

'  Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 

From  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 
The  Poets;  in  this  little  town  of  yours,      91 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Com- 
mittee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The   street-musicians   of    the    heavenly 

city, 
The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us 

all 
In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

'The  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of 

day 
From   the   green   steeples   of   the    piny 

wood; 
The  oriole  in  the  elm;  the  noisy  jay, 

Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food; 
The  bluebird   balanced   on  some   topmost 
spray,  101 

Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood; 
Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 
That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of 
song. 

'  You  slay  them  all !  and  wherefore  ?  for 

the  gain 

Of  a    scant    handful    more   or    less   of 
wheat, 


Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious 

feet, 
Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain! 

Or  a  few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 
As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests  m 
Sing    at    their    feast     with    comfortable 
breasts. 

'  Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  beings 

these  ? 
Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and 

who  taught 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought  ? 
Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many 

keys, 
Sweeter  than   instrument  of  man  e'er 

caught ! 

Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are    half-way    houses    on    the    road    to 
heaven!  i2r 

'  Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps 

through 
The   dim,  leaf-latticed   windows  of  the 

grove, 
How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 

Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love  ! 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 

'T  is   always    morning   somewhere,   and 

above 
The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to 

shore, 
Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

'  Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  with- 
out birds  ! 

Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and 
beams  130 

As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 
Hang  empty    'mid   the   cobwebs   of  his 

dreams  ! 

Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  .herds 
Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your 


Drag  home    the   stingy   harvest,   and   no 

more 
The    feathered    gleaners   follow   to   youl 

door? 

'  What  !  would  you  rather  see  the  ince* 

sant  stir 

Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 
And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play  ?i4o 
Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whir 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  her  sweet  rounde- 
lay, 

Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 
Your   nooning   in   the   shade  of  bush  and 
brake? 

'You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers;  but 

know, 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your 

farms, 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidi- 
ous foe, 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred 

harms; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Renders  good   service  as  your   man-at- 
arms,  150 
Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 
And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

'  How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentleness, 

And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 
For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 

Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence, 
Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no 

less 
The    selfsame    light,   although   averted 

hence, 

When   by  your    laws,   your   actions,    and 
your  speech,  159 

You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach  ?  ' 

With  this  he  closed;  and  through  the  au- 
dience went 
A    murmur,   like    the   rustle    of    dead 

leaves ; 
The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some 

bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together  like   their 


Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 
Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  and  in 

beeves. 
The  birds  were  doomed ;  and,  as  the  record 

shows, 
A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making 
laws,  170 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 
And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with 
applause  ; 


They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more 

than  each, 
He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  theis 

cause. 
Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from 

thee, 
O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy  ! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began; 
O'er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er  wood- 
land crests, 
The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on 

their  breasts,  180 

Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of  man, 

While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their 

nests; 

A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words, 
The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds  ! 

The  summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were 

dead; 
The  days  were  like  hot  coals;  the  very 

ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes;  in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 
Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and 
found  190 

No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had 

made 
The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the 

town, 

Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 
Slaughtered  the  Innocents.   From  the  trees 

spun  down 

The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers-by, 
Upon    each   woman's    bonnet,   shawl,   and 

gown, 
Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little 

cry; 
They   were   the   terror   of   each    favorite 

walk, 
The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk.  200 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few 
Confessed    their   error,   and   would   not 

complain, 
For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 

When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 
Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they 

knew 
It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again  j 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


239 


As  school-boys,  finding   their  mistrJte  too 

iate, 
Draw  a  wet  sponge    across   the   accusing 

slate. 

That    year   in   Killingworth   the   Autumn 

came 

Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look,  2.10 

The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 

The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom's-Day 

book. 
A  few  lost  leaves   blushed   crimson  with 

their  shame, 
And  drowned   themselves  despairing  in 

the  brook, 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  every- 
where, 
Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air  ! 

But  the  next  spring  a  stranger  sight  was 

seen, 
A   sight   that   never   yet   by   bard    was 

sung, 

As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 
If    some    dumb    animal    had    found    a 
tongue  !  220 

A  wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 
Uixm  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages 

hung, 
All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the 

street, 
Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 

From  all   the   country  round   these   birds 

were  brought, 

By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 
And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons, 

sought 
In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved 

best, 

Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 
Were    satires     to    the    authorities    ad- 
dressed, 230 
While    others,   listening    in   green    lanes, 

averred 
Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard  ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to 
know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  ab^ve,  below, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  over- 


And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 
Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth.  240 
1863.  1863. 

WEARINESS 

O  LITTLE  feet !  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 

Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road  ! 

O  little  hands  I  that,  weak  or  strong, 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask; 
I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

O  little  hearts  !  that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires; 
Mine,  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned, 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 

O  little  souls  !  as  pure  and  white 
And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  divine* 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears, 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine  ! 
1863  ?  1863, 


HAWTHORNE  i 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase 
away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The   lovely   town  was  white  with  apple- 
blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

1  Hawthorne  and  Longfellow  were  friends  for  many 
years.  This  poem  records  the  impressions  and  feelings 
of  the  day  of  Hawthorne's  burial,  May  23,  1864 :  '  It 
was  a  lovely  day  ;  the  village  all  sunshine  and  blossoms 
and  the  song  of  birds.  You  cannot  imagine  anything  at 
once  more  sad  and  beautiful.  He  is  buried  on  a  hill-top 
under  the  pines.'  (Spe  the  Life,  vol.  iii,  pp.  36,  38,  39; 
and  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  letter  to  Longfellow,  pp.  40-42.' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old  manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed  : 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The    faces    of    familiar    friends    seemed 

strange ; 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to 

change 
Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the  one  face  I  looked  for  was  not  there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse,  and 
stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines; 
I  only  see  —  a  dream  within  a  dream  — 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  pnly  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah. !   who   shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic 
power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain  ? 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain ! 


DIVINA    COMMEDIA1 


OFT  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 

1  The  poet's  life  and  work  were  interrupted  by  the 
tragic  death,  through  fire,  of  Mrs.  Longfellow.  What 
he  felt  most  deeply,  he  never  expressed,  and  this  bur- 
den of  sorrow  is  scarcely  alluded  to  in  his  poetry,  ex- 
cept in  the  first  of  these  sonnets,  and  in  '  The  Cross  of 
Snow,'  written  eighteen  years  later,  and  not  published 
till  after  his  death.  Unable  to  write,  and  unable  to  live 
without  writing,  he  took  refuge  in  the  work  of  trans- 
lating Dante's  Dirine  Comedy,  which  he  had  begun  in 
1843,  taken  up  again  in  1853,  and  now  continued  and 
completed,  finishing  the  long  task  in  1867.  From  1861 
to  1869  he  wrote  hardly  anything  else,  except  some 


Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent 

feet 

Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 
Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 
So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 
And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to 

pray> 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 
1864.  1864. 


How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these 

towers ! 
This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded 

sleeves 
Birds  build  their  nests;  while  canopied  with 


Parvis  and  portal  bloom  like  trellised  bow- 
ers, 

And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of  flow- 
ers ! 

But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled 
eaves 

Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the  living 
thieves, 

And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  lowers ! 

Ah  !  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 

What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 

What  tenderness,  what  tears,  what  hate  of 
wrong, 

What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 

Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 

This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song  ! 

1864.  1866. 

Ill 

I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  long  aisles,  O  poet  saturnine  ! 

fragments  needed  to  complete  the  first  part  of  Tales  oj 
a  Wayside  Inn. 

During  the  same  years  Robert  Browning  was  trying 
to  benumb  the  intensity  of  his  own  sorrow  through  ab- 
sorption in  the  Ring  and  the  Book  ;  and  Bryant,  after 
the  loss  of  a  wife  whom  he  had  worshipped,  yet  whom 
he  scarcely  alludes  to  in  his  verse  (see  '  O  Fairest  of 
the  Rural  Maids,'  '  The  Future  Life,'  and  '  A  Life- 
time'), took  for  his  task  the  translation  of  Homer. 

Longfellow's  Journal,  and  his  letters  to  Sumner, 
show  also  how  deeply  he  felt  the  life-and-death  crisis 
through  which  his  country  Was  passing  in  the  same 
years,  and  to  which,  also,  his  verse  hardly  alludes  ex- 
cept for  the  first  of  these  sonnets. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


241 


And  strive  to  make    my  steps   keep  pace 

with  thine. 

The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown  per- 
fume; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 
For  thee  to  pass;  the  votive  tapers  shine; 
Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves  of 

pine 

The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to  tomb. 
From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 
Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below; 
And  then  a  voice  celestial  that  begins 
With  the  pathetic  words,  '  Although  your 

sins 

As  scarlet  be,'  and  ends  with  '  as  the  snow.' 
1865.  18(50. 


With  snow-white  veil  and  garments  as  of 

flame, 

She  stands  before  thee,  who  so  long  ago 
Filled  thy  young  heart  with  passion  and  the 

woe 
From  which  thy  song  and  all  its  splendors 

came; 
And  while  with  stern  rebuke  she  speaks  thy 

name, 

The  ice  about  thy  heart  melts  as  the  snow 
On  mountain  heights,  and  in  swift  overflow 
Comes  gushing  from  thy   lips    in  sobs  of 

shame. 

Thou  makest  full  confession;  and  a  gleam, 
As  of  the  dawn  on  some  dark  forest  cast, 
Seems  on  thy  lifted  forehead  to  increase ; 
Lethe  and  Eunoe  —  the  remembered  dream 
And  the  forgotten  sorrow  —  bring  at  last 
That  perfect  pardon  which  is  perfect  peace. 
1867.  1867. 


I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze 

With  forms  of  Saints  and  holy  men  who 
died, 

Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified; 

And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves  dis- 
plays 

Christ's  Triumph,  and  the  angelic  rounde- 
lays, 

With  splendor  upon  splendor  multiplied; 

And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante's  side 

No  more  rebukes,  but  smiles  her  words  of 
praise. 

And  then  the  organ  sounds,  and  unseen 
choirs 


Sing  the  old  Latin  hymns  of  peace  and  love 
And  benedictions  of  the  Holy  Ghost; 
And  the  melodious  bells  among  the  spires 
O'er  all  the  house-tops  and  through  heaven 

above 
Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host ! 


O  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty  ! 

0  bringer   of   the    light,  whose    splendor 

shines 

Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be ! 
The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 
The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy  ! 
Thy  flame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the 

heights, 
Through  all  the  nations,  and  a  sound  is 

As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 
Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  proselytes, 
In  their  own  language  hear  the  wondrous 

word, 

And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 
1866.  1866. 

KILLED  AT  THE  FORD* 

HE  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 
The  heart  of  honor,  the  tongue  of  truth, 
He,  the  life  and  light  of  us  all, 
Whose  voice  was  blithe  as  a  bugle-call, 
Whom  all  eyes  followed  with  one  consent, 
The  cheer  of  whose  laugh,  and  whose  plea- 
sant word, 
Hushed  all  murmurs  of  discontent. 

Only  last  night,  as  we  rode  along, 
Down  the  dark  of  the  mountain  gap, 
To  visit  the  picket-guard  at  the  ford,         10 
Little  dreaming  of  any  mishap, 
He  was  humming  the  words  of  some  old 
song: 

1  The  poem  you  speak  of  was  not  a  record  of  any 
one  event  which  came  to  my  knowledge,  but  of  many 
which  came  to  my  imagination.  It  is  an  attempt  to  ex- 
press something  of  the  inexpressible  sympathy  which 

1  feel  for  the  death  of  the  young  men  in  the  war,  which 
makes  my  heart  bleed  whenever  I  think  of  it.   (LONO- 
FBLLOW.  in  a  letter  of  March  23,  1866.) 

Longfellow's  oldest  son,  Charles,  was  a  lieutenant  of 
cavalry  in  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  before  he  wag 
twenty  years  old.  Toward  the  end  of  1863  he  was  seri- 
ously wounded,  but  recovered.  (Life,  vol.  iii,  pp.  21, 


242 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


'  Two  red  roses  he  had  on  his  cap 
And  another  he  bore  at  the  point  of  his 
sword.' 

Sudden  and  swift  a  whistling  ball 

Came  out  of  a  wood,  and  the  voice  was 

still; 

Something  I  heard  in  the  darkness  fall, 
And  for  a  moment  my  blood  grew  chill; 
I  spake  in  a  whisper,  as  he  who  speaks 

But  he  made  no  answer  to  what  1  said. 

We  lifted  him  up  to  his  saddle  again, 
And  through  the  mire  and  the  mist  and 

the  rain 

Carried  him  back  to  the  silent  camp, 
And  laid  him  as  if  asleep  on  his  bed; 
And  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  surgeon's 

lamp 

Two  white  roses  upon  his  cheeks, 
And  one,  just  over  his  heart,  blood-red! 

And  I  saw  in  a  vision  how  far  and  fleet 
That  fatal  bullet  went  speeding  forth,       30 
Till  it  reached  a  town  in  the  distant  North, 
Till  it  reached  a  house  in  a  sunny  street, 
Till  it  reached  a  heart  that  ceased  to  beat 
Without  a  murmur,  without  a  cry; 
And  a  bell  was  tolled,  in  that  far-off  town, 
For   one   who   had   passed   from   cross  to 

crown, 
And  the  neighbors  wondered  that  she  should 

die. 
1866.  1866. 


GIOTTO'S   TOWER 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 
By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  complaint 
On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 
Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 
Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists  paint 
Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint, 
And  are  in  their  completeness  incomplete  ! 
In  the  old   Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's 

tower, 

The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in  stone,  — 
A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire,  — 
The  builder's  perfect  and  centennial  flower, 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone, 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 


FINALE   OF   CHRISTUS 

SAINT   JOHN 

SAINT  JOHN  wandering  over  the  face  of  the 
Earth. 

SAINT  JOHN  : 

THE  Ages  come  and  go, 

The  Centuries  pass  as  Years; 

My  hair  is  white  as  the  snow, 

My  feet  are  weary  and  slow, 

The  earth  is  wet  with  my  tears  ! 

The  kingdoms  crumble,  and  fall 

Apart,  like  a  ruined  wall, 

Or  a  bank  that  is  undermined 

By  a  river's  ceaseless  flow, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind  !  K 

The  world  itself  is  old; 

The  portals  of  Time  unfold 

On  hinges  of  iron,  that  grate 

And  groan  with  the  rust  and  the  weight. 

Like  the  hinges  of  a  gate 

That  hath  fallen  to  decay; 

But  the  evil  doth  not  cease; 

There  is  war  instead  of  peace, 

Instead  of  Love  there  is  hate; 

And  still  I  must  wander  and  wait,         * 

Still  I  must  watch  and  pray, 

Not  forgetting  in  whose  sight, 

A  thousand  years  in  their  flight 

Are  as  a  single  day. 

The  life  of  man  is  a  gleam 

Of  light,  that  comes  and  goes 

.Like  the  course  of  the  Holy  Stream, 

The  cityless  river,  that  flows 

From  fountains  no  one  knows, 

Through  the  Lake  of  Galilee,  3( 

Through  forests  and  level  lands, 

Over  rocks,  and  shallows,  and  sands 

Of  a  wilderness  wild  and  vast, 

Till  it  findeth  its  rest  at  last 

In  the  desolate  Dead  Sea  ! 

But  alas  !  alas  for  me 

Nor  yet  this  rest  shall  be  ! 

What,  then  !  doth  Charity  fail  ? 

Is  Faith  of  no  avail  ? 

Is  Hope  blown  out  like  a  light  4c 

By  a  gust  of  wind  in  the  night  ? 

The  clashing  of  creeds,  and  the  strife 

Of  the  many  beliefs,  that  in  vain 

Perplex  man's  heart  and  brain, 

Are  naught  but  the  rustle  of  leaves, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


243 


When  the  breath  of  God  upheaves 

The  boughs  of  the  Tree  of  Life, 

And  they  subside  again  ! 

And  I  remember  still 

The  words,  and  from  whom  they  came, 

Not  he  that  repeateth  the  name,  51 

But  he  that  doeth  the  will  ! 

And  Him  evermore  I  behold 

Walking  in  Galilee, 

Through  the  cornfield's  waving  gold, 

In  hamlet,  in  wood,  and  in  wold, 

By  the  shores  of  the  Beautiful  Sea. 

He  toucheth  the  sightless  eyes; 

Before  Him  the  demons  flee; 

To  the  dead  He  sayeth:  Arise  !  60 

To  the  living:  Follow  me  ! 

And  that  voice  still  soundeth  on 

From  the  centuries  that  are  gone, 

To  the  centuries  that  shall  be  ! 

From  all  vain  pomps  and  shows, 

From  the  pride  that  overflows, 

And  the  false  conceits  of  men; 

From  all  the  narrow  rules 

And  subtleties  of  Schools, 

And  the  craft  of  tongue  and  pen;    .*      70 

Bewildered  in  its  search, 

Bewildered  with  the  cry: 

Lo,  here  !  lo,  there,  the  Church  ! 

Poor,  sad  Humanity 

Through  all  the  dust  and  heat 

Turns  back  with  bleeding  feet, 

By  the  weary  road  it  came, 

Unto  the  simple  thought 

By  the  great  Master  taught, 

And  that  remaineth  still:  80 

Not  he  that  repeateth  the  name, 

But  he  that  doeth  the  will  ! 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE* 


THE  lights  are  out,  and  gone  are  all  the 

guests 
That  thronging  came  with  merriment  and 

jests 

1  '  One  morning  in  the  spring  of  1867,'  writes  Mr. 
T.  B.  Aldrich,  '  Mr.  Longfellow  came  to  the  little  home 
in  Pinckney  Street  [Boston],  where  we  had  set  up  house- 
keeping in  the  light  of  our  honeymoon.  As  we  lingered 
a  moment  at  the  dining-room  door,  Mr.  Longfellow 
turning  to  me  said,  "  Ah,  Mr.  Aldrich,  your  small  round 
table  will  not  always  be  closed.  By  and  by  you  will 
find  new  young  faces  clustering  about  it ;  as  years  go 


To  celebrate  the  Hanging  of  the  Crane 
In   the   new  house,  —  into   the   night   are 

gone; 

But  still  the  fire  upon  the  hearth  burns  on, 
And  I  alone  remain. 

O  fortunate,  O  happy  day, 
When  a  new  household  finds  its  place 
Among  the  myriad  homes  of  earth, 
Like  a  new  star  just  sprung  to  birth,     ic 
And  rolled  on  its  harmonious  way 
Into  the  boundless  realms  of  space  ! 

So  said  the  guests  in  speech  and  song, 
As  in  the  chimney,  burning  bright, 
We  hung  the  iron  crane  to-night, 
And  merry  was  the  feast  and  long. 


And  now  I  sit  and  muse  on  what  may  be, 
And  in  my  vision  see,  or  seem  to  see, 
Through  floating  vapors  interfused  with 

light, 

Shapes     indeterminate,    that     gleam    and 
fade,  2C 

As  shadows  passing  into  deeper  shade 
Sink  and  elude  the  sight. 

For  two  alone,  there  in  the  hall, 

Is  spread  the  table  round  and  small; 

Upon  the  polished  silver  shine 

The  evening  lamps,  but,  more  divine, 

The  light  of  love  shines  over  all; 

Of  love,  that  says  not  mine  and  thine, 

But  ours,  for  ours  is  thine  and  mine. 

They  want  no  guests,  to  come  between  30 
Their  tender  glances  like  a  screen, 
And  tell  them  tales  of  land  and  sea, 
on,  leaf  after  leaf  will  be  added  until  the  time  cornea 
when  the  young  guests  will  take  flight,  one  by  one,  to 
build  nests  of  their  own  elsewhere.  Gradually  the  long 
table  will  shrink  to  a  circlo  again,  leaving  two  old  peo- 
ple sitting  there  alone  together.  This  is  the  story  of 
life,  the  sweet  and  pathetic  poem  of  the  fireside.  Make 
an  idyl  of  it.  I  give  the  idea  to  you."  Several  months 
afterward,  I  received  a  note  from  Mr.  Longfellow  in 
which  he  expressed  a  desire  to  use  this  motif  in  case  I 
had  done  nothing  in  the  matter.  The  theme  was  one 
peculiarly  adapted  to  his  sympathetic  handling,  and  out 
of  it  grew  The  Hanging  of  the  Crane.1  Just  when  the 
poem  was  written  does  not  appear,  but  its  first  publica- 
tion was  in  the  New  York  Ledger,  March  28,  1874.  Mr. 
Longfellow's  old  friend,  Mr.  Samuel  Ward,  had  heard 
the  poem,  and  offered  to  secure  it  for  Mr.  Robert  Bon- 
ner,  the  proprietor  of  the  Ledger, '  touched  '  as  he  wrote 

to  Mr.  Longfellow,  'by  your  kindness  to  poor , 

and  haunted  by  the  idea  of  increasing  handsomely 
your  noble  charity  fund.'  Mr.  Bonner  paid  the  poet 
the  sum  of  three  thousand  dollars  for  this  poem.  (Cam- 
bridge Edition.} 


244 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


And  whatsoever  may  betide 
The  great,  forgotten  world  outside; 
They  want  no  quests;  they  needs  must  be 
Each  other's  own  best  company. 


The  picture  fades;  as  at  a  village  fair 
A  showman's  views,  dissolving  into  air, 

Again  appear  transfigured  on  the  screen, 
So  in  my  fancy  this ;  and  now  once  more,   4o 
In  part  transfigured,  through  the  open  door 
Appears  the  selfsame  scene. 

Seated,  I  see  the  two  again, 

But  not  alone ;  they  entertain 

A  little  angel  unaware, 

With  face  as  round  as  is  the  moon, 

A  royal  guest  with  flaxen  hair, 

Who,  throned  upon  his  lofty  chair, 

Drums  on  the  table  with  his  spoon, 

Then  drops  it  careless  on  the  floor,         50 

To  grasp  at  things  unseen  before. 

Are  these  celestial  manners  ?  these 

The  ways  that  win,  the  arts  that  please  ? 

Ah  yes;  consider  well  the  guest, 

And  whatsoe'er  he  does  seems  best; 

He  ruleth  by  the  right  divine 

Of  helplessness,  so  lately  born 

In  purple  chambers  of  the  morn, 

As  sovereign  over  thee  and  thine. 

He  speaketh  not;  and  yet  there  lies      60 

A  conversation  in  his  eyes; 

The  golden  silence  of  the  Greek, 

The  gravest  wisdom  of  the  wise, 

Not  spoken  in  language,  but  in  looks 

More  legible  than  printed  books, 

As  if  he  could  but  would  not  speak. 

And  now,  O  monarch  absolute, 

Thy  power  is  put  to  proof;  for,  lo! 

Resistless,  fathomless,  and  slow, 

The  nurse  comes  rustling  like  the  sea,  70 

And  pushes  back  thy  chair  and  thee, 

And  so  good  night  to  King  Canute. 

IV 

As  one  who  walking  in  a  forest  sees 

A   lovely   landscape    through    the   parted 

trees, 

Then  sees  it  not,  for  boughs  that  inter- 
vene ; 

Or  as  we  see  the  moon  sometimes  revealed 
Through  drifting  clouds,  and  then   again 

concealed, 
So  I  behold  the  scene. 


There  are  two  guests  at  table  now; 
The  king,  deposed  and  older  grown,      80 
No  longer  occupies  the  throne,  — 
The  crown  is  on  his  sister's  brow; 
A  Princess  from  the  Fairy  Isles, 
The  very  pattern  girl  of  girls, 
All  covered  and  embowered  in  curls, 
Rose-tinted  from  the  Isle  of  Flowers, 
And  sailing  with  soft,  silken  sails 
From  far-off  Dreamland  into  ours. 
Above  their  bowls  with  rims  of  blue 
Four  azure  eyes  of  deeper  hue  go 

Are  looking,  dreamy  with  delight; 
Limpid  as  planets  that  emerge 
Above  the  ocean's  rounded  verge, 
Soft-shining  through  the  summer  night. 
Steadfast  thy  gaze,  yet  nothing  see 
Beyond  the  horizon  of  their  bowls; 
Nor  care  they  for  the  world  that  rolls 
With  all  its  freight  of  troubled  souls 
Into  the  days  that  are  to  be. 


Again    the   tossing   boughs   shut   out   the 
scene,  too 

Again  the  drifting  vapors  intervene, 

And  the  moon's  pallid  disk  Ls  hidden  quite; 
And  now  I  see  the  table  wider  grown, 
As  round  a  pebble  into  water  thrown 
Dilates  a  ring  of  light. 

I  see  the  table  wider  grown, 
I  see  it  garlanded  whh  guests, 
As  if  fair  Ariadne's  Crown 
Out  of  the  sky  had  fallen  down; 
Maidens  within  whose  tender  breasts   n» 
A  thousand  restless  hopes  and  fears, 
Forth  reaching  to  the  coming  years, 
Flutter  awhile,  then  quiet  lie, 
Like  timid  birds  that  fain  would  fly, 
But  do  not  dare  to  leave  their  nests ;  — 
And  youths,  who  in  their  strength  elate 
Challenge  the  van  and  front  of  fate, 
Eager  as  champions  to  be 
In  the  divine  knight-errantry 
Of  youth,  that  travels  sea  and  land       120 
Seeking  adventures,  or  pursues, 
Through  cities,  and  through  solitudes 
Frequented  by  the  lyric  Muse, 
The  phantom  with  the  beckoning  hand, 
That  still  allures  and  still  eludes. 
O  sweet  illusions  of  the  brain  ! 
O  sudden  thrills  of  fire  and  frost ! 
The  world  is  bright  while  ye  remain, 
Aad  dark  and  dead  when  ye  are  lost ! 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


245 


VI 

The  meadow-brook,  that  seemeth  to  stand 
still,  )3o 

Quickens  its  current  as  it  nears  the  mill; 
And  so  the  stream  of  Time  that  linger- 

eth 

In  level  places,  and  so  dull  appears, 
Runs  with  a  swifter  current  as  it  nears 
The  gloomy  mills  of  Death. 

And  now,  like  the  magician's  scroll, 

That  in  the  owner's  keeping  shrinks 

With  every  wish  he  speaks  or  thinks, 

Till  the  last  wish  consumes  the  whole, 

The  table  dwindles,  and  again  140 

I  see  the  two  alone  remain. 

The  crown  of  stars  is  broken  in  parts; 

Its  jewels,  brighter  than  the  day, 

Have  one  by  one  been  stolen  away 

To  shine  in  other  homes  and  hearts. 

One  is  a  wanderer  now  afar 

In  Ceylon  or  in  Zanzibar, 

Or  sunny  regions  of  Cathay; 

And  one  is  in  the  boisterous  camp 

'Mid  clink  of  arms  and  horses'  tramp,   150 

And  battle's  terrible  array. 

I  see  the  patient  mother  read, 

With  aching  heart,  of  wrecks  that  float 

Disabled  on  those  seas  remote, 

Or  of  some  great  heroic  deed 

On  battle-fields,  where  thousands  bleed 

To  lift  one  hero  into  fame. 

Anxious  she  bends  her  graceful  head 

Above  these  chronicles  of  pain, 

And  trembles  with  a  secret  dread         i<x> 

Lest  there  among  the  drowned  or  slain 

She  find  the  one  beloved  name. 


After  a  day  of  cloud  and  wind  and  rain 
Sometimes  the  setting  sun  breaks  out  again, 
And,  touching  all  the  darksome  woods 

with  light, 
Smiles  on  the  fields,  until  they  laugh  and 

sing, 

Then  like  a  ruby  from  the  horizon's  ring 
Drops  down  into  the  night. 

What  see  I  now  ?   The  night  is  fair, 

The  storm  of  grief,  the  clouds  of  care,  170 

The  wind,  the  rain,  have  passed  away ; 

The  lamps  are  lit,  the  fires  burn  bright, 

The  house  is  full  of  life  and  light; 

It  is  the  Golden  Wedding  day. 

The  guests  come  thronging  in  once  more, 


Quick  footsteps  sound  along  the  floor, 

The  trooping  childj.cn  crowd  the  stair, 

And  in  and  out  and  everywhere 

Flashes  along  the  corridor 

The  sunshine  of  their  golden  hair.        iSt 

On  the  round  table  in  the  hall 

Another  Ariadne's  Crown 

Out  of  the  sky  hath  fallen  down; 

More  than  one  Monarch  of  the  Moon 

Is  drumming  with  his  silver  spoon; 

The  light  of  love  shines  over  all. 

O  fortunate,  O  happy  day  ! 
The  people  sing,  the  people  say. 
The  ancient  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 
Smiling  contented  and  serene  190 

Upon  the  blithe,  bewildering  scene, 
Behold,  well  pleased,  on  every  side 
Their  forms  and  features  multiplied, 
As  the  reflection  of  a  light 
Between  two  burnished  mirrors  gleams, 
Or  lamps  upon  a  bridge  at  night 
Stretch  on  and  on  before  the  sight, 
Till  the  long  vista  endless  seems. 
1873.  1874. 


CHAUCER 

AN  old  man  in  a  lodge  within  a  park; 
The  chamber  walls  depicted  all  around 
With  portraitures  of  huntsman,  hawk,  and 

hound, 

And  the  hurt  deer.    He  listeneth  to  the  lark, 
Whose    song    comes    with    the     sunshine 

through  the  dark 

Of  painted  glass  in  leaden  lattice  bound ; 
He  listeneth  and  he  laugheth  at  the  sound, 
Then  writeth  in  a  book  like  any  clerk. 
He  is  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 
The  Canterbury  Tales,  and  his  old  age 
Made  beautiful  with  song;  and  as  I  read 
I  hear  the  crowing  cock,  I  hear  the  note 
Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every  page 
Rise  odors  of  ploughed   field   or  flowery 

mead. 
1873.  (1875.) 


SHAKESPEARE 

A  VISION  as  of  crowded  city  streets, 
With  human  life  in  endless  overflow; 
Thunder  of  thoroughfares;   trumpets   that 
blow 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


To  battle;  clamor,  in  obscure  retreats, 
Of  sailors  landed  from  their  anchored  fleets ; 
Tolling  of  bells  in  turrets,  and  below 
Voices  of  childreu,  and  bright  flowers  that 

throw 
O'er     garden     walls     their     intermingled 

sweets ! 

This  vision  comes  to  me  when  I  unfold 
The  volume  of  the  Poet  paramount, 
Whom    all    the    Muses    loved,   not    one 

alone; — 

Into  his  hands  they  put  the  lyre  of  gold, 
And,  crowned  with  sacred  laurel  at  their 

fount, 

Placed  him  as  Musagetes  on  their  throne. 
1873.  (1875.) 


MILTON 

I  PACE  the  sounding  sea-beach  and  behold 
How  the  voluminous  billows  roll  and  run, 
Upheaving  and  subsiding,  while  the  sun 
Shines  through  their  sheeted  emerald  far 

unrolled, 
And  the  ninth  wave,  slow  gathering  fold  by 

fold 

All  its  loose-flowing  garments  into  one, 
Plunges  upon  the  shore,  and  floods  the  dun 
Pale  reach  of  sands,  and  changes  them  to 

gold. 

So  in  majestic  cadence  rise  and  fall 
The  mighty  undulations  of  thy  song, 
O  sightless  bard,  England's  Maeonides  ! 
And  ever  and  anon,  high  over  all 
Uplifted,  a  ninth  wave  superb  and  strong, 
Floods  all  the  soul  with  its  melodious  seas. 
1873.  (1875.) 


KEATS 

THE  young  Endymion  sleeps  Endymion's 

sleep; 
The  shepherd-boy  whose  tale  was  left  half 

told! 

The  solemn  grove  uplifts  its  shield  of  gold 
To  the  red  rising  moon,  and  loud  and  deep 
The  nightingale  is  singing  from  the  steep; 
It  is  midsummer,  but  the  air  is  cold; 
Can  it  be  death?     Alas,  beside  the  fold 
A  shepherd's  pipe  lies  shattered  near  his 

sheep. 
Lol    in   the   moonlight   gleams   a  marble 

white, 


On  which  I  read:  'Here  lieth  one  whose 

name 

Was  writ  hi  water.' l  And  was  this  the  meed 
Of  his  sweet  singing  ?  Rather  let  me  write : 
'  The  smoking  flax  before  it  burst  to  flame 
Was  quenched  by  death,  and  broken  the 

bruised  reed.' 
1873.  (1875.) 


THE    SOUND    OF   THE   SEA 

THE  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep, 
And  round  the  pebbly  beaches  far  and  wide 
I  heard  the  first  wave  of  the  rising  tide 
Rush  onward  with  uninterrupted  sweep; 
A  voice  out  of  the  silence  of  the  deep, 
A  sound  mysteriously  multiplied 
As  of  a  cataract  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Or  roar  of  winds  upon  a  wooded  steep. 
So  comes  to  us  at  times,  from  the  unknown 
And  inaccessible  solitudes  of  being, 
The  mshing  of  the  sea-tides  of  the  soul; 
And  inspirations,  that  we  deem  our  own, 
Are  some  divine  foreshadowing  and  foresee^ 

ing 

Of  tilings  beyond  our  reason  or  control. 
1874.  (1875.) 


THREE   FRIENDS   OF   MINE 


WHEN  I  remember  them,  those  friends  of 

mine, 

Who  are  no  longer  here,  the  noble  three, 
Who  half  my  life  were  more  than  friends  to 

me, 
And  whose  discourse  was  like  a  generous 

wine, 

I  most  of  all  remember  the  divine 
Something,  that  shone  in  them,  and  made  us 

see 

The  archetypal  man,  and  what  might  be 
The  amplitude  of  Nature's  first  design. 
In  vain  I  stretch  my  hands  to  clasp  their 

hands; 
I  cannot  find  them.   Nothing  now  is  left      10 

1  Keats'  epitaph  upon  himself,  inscribed  on  the  simple 
stone  that  stands  at  the  head  of  his  grave  beside  the 
walls  of  Rome.  Of  the  many  poets'  protests  against 
its  cutting  pathos,  perhaps  the  best  is  this,  by  J.  E. 
Spingarn :  — 
The  Sta 

And  answering,  the  strear 
our  waters  shall  ' 
>  name  of  KeaU  1 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


247 


But   a    majestic    memory.      They   mean- 
while 

Wander  together  m  Elysian  lands, 
Perchance  remembering  me,  who  am  bereft 
Of  their  dear  presence,  and,  remembering, 
smile. 


In  Attica  thy  birthplace  should  have  been, 
On  the  Ionian  Isles,  or  where  the  seas 
Encircle  in  their  arms  the  Cyclades, 
So  wholly  Greek  wast  thou  in  thy  serene 
And  childlike  joy  of  life,  O  Philhellene  ! 
Around  thee  would  have  swarmed  the  Attic 

bees;  20 

Homer  had  been  thy  friend,  or  Socrates, 
And  Plato  welcomed  thee  to  his  demesne. 
For  thee  old  legends  breathed  historic 

breath; 

Thou  sawest  Poseidon  in  the  purple  sea, 
And  in  the  sunset  Jason's  fleece  of  gold ! 
Oh,  what  hadst  thou  to  do  with  cruel  Death, 
Who  wast  so  full  of   life,  or  Death  with 

thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  die  before  thou  hadst 

grown  old  ! 


I  stand  again  on  the  familiar  shore, 
And  hear  the  waves  of  the  distracted  sea 
Piteously  calling  and  lamenting  thee,        3 1 
And  waiting  restless  at  thy  cottage  door. 
The   rocks,   the    sea-weed   on    the    ocean 

floor, 

The  willows  in  the  meadow,  and  the  free 
Wild  winds  of  the  Atlantic  welcome  me; 
Then  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  and  come 

no  more  ? 

Ah,  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  when  com- 
mon men 

Are  busy  with  their  trivial  affairs, 
Having   and   holding  ?     Why,  when   thou 

hadst  read 

Nature's  mysterious  manuscript,  and  then  4o 
Wast  ready  to  reveal  the  truth  it  bears, 
Why  art  thou  silent  ?     Why  shouldst  thou 
be  dead  ? 

1  C.  C.  Felton,  for  many  years  professor  of  Greek  it 
Harvard,  and  presi.leut  of  the  University  from  18CO 
till  his  death  in  1862.  See  the  Life  of  Lonr/felloiv,  in 
many  passages,  but  especially  vol.  iii,  pp.  4,  7,  9. 

*  Agassiz  was  a  constant  companion  of  Longfellow's. 
See  note  on  p.  211,  and  many  passages  in  the  Life. 

3  Charles  Scunner  was  lecturer  in  the  Harvard  Law 
School  when  Longfellow  first  came  to  Cambridge,  in 
1836,  and  from  that  time  until  his  death,  in  1874,  was 
one  of  Longfellow's  closest  friends. 


River,  that  stealest  with  such  silent  pace 
Around  the  City  of  the  Dead,4  where  lies 
A  friend  who  bore  thy  name,  and  whom 

these  eyes 
Shall    see    no    more    in    his    accustomed 

place, 

Linger  and  fold  him  in  thy  soft  embrace, 
And  say  good  night,  for  now  the  western 

s'kies 

Are  red  with  sunset,  and  gray  mists  arise 
Like  damps  that  gather  on  a  dead  man's 

face.  50 

Good  night  !  good  night !  as  we  so  oft  have 

said 

Beneath  this  roof  at  midnight,  in  the  days 
That  are  no  more,  and  shall  no  more  re- 
turn. 
Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  lamp  and  gone  to 

bed; 

I  stay  a  little  longer,  as  one  stays 
To  cover  up  the  embers  that  still  burn. 


The  doors  are  all  wide  open;  at  the  gate 
The  blossomed  lilacs  counterfeit  a  blaze, 
And  seem  to  warm  the  air;  a  dreamy 

haze 
Hangs  o'er  the  Brighton  meadows  like  a 

fate,  60 

And  on  their  margin,  with  sea-tides  elate, 
The   flooded    Charles,    as   in  the    happier 

days, 
Writes   the    last   letter  of   his  name,  and 

stays 

His  restless  steps,  as  if  compelled  to  wait. 
I  also  wait;  biit  they  will  come  no  more, 
Those  friends  of  mine,  whose  presence  sat- 
isfied 
The  thirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart.     Ah 

me  ! 
They  have   forgotten  the  pathway  to  my 

door  ! 
Something  is  gone  from  nature  since  they 

died, 

And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor  can  be.  70 
1874.  (1875.) 

*  The  River  Charles,  whose  windings  '  write  the  last 
letter  of  his  name,'  flows  near  the  Cemetery  of  Mount 
Auburn.  There  Sumner  is  buried,  on  the  hillside  near- 
est the  river.  Longfellow  himself  and  Agassiz,  Lowell, 
Holmes,  Pierpont,  Willis,  ,ind  Parsons,  and  the  histo- 
rians Prescott,  Motley,  and  Parkman  now  lie  buried 
there  also. 


248 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


MORITURI    SALUTAMUSi 

POEM  FOR  THE  FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY 
OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1825  IN  BOWDOIN 
COLLEGE 

Tempera  labuntur,  tacit:sque  senescimus  aunis, 
Et  fugiuut  treuo  uoii  remoraute  dies. 

OVID,  Fastorum,  Lib.  vi. 

'  O  CAESAR,  we  who  are  about  to  die  • 
Salute  you  ! '  was  the  gladiators'  cry 
In  the  arena,  standing  face  to  face 
With  death  and  with  the  Roman  populace. 

O  ye  familiar  scenes,  —  ye  groves  of  pine, 
That   once  were  mine   and  are  no  longer 

mine, — 
Thou  river,  widening  through  the  meadows 

green 

To  the  vast  sea,  so  near  and  yet  unseen,  — 
Ye  halls,  in  whose  seclusion  and  repose 
Phantoms  of  fame,  like  exhalations,  rose  10 
And  vanished,  —  we  who  are  about  to  die, 
Salute  you;  earth  and  air  and  sea  and  sky, 
And  the  Imperial  Sun  that  scatters  down 
His  sovereign   splendors   upon   grove  and 

town. 

Ye  do  not  answer  us  !  ye  do  not  hear  ! 
We  are  forgotten;  and  in  your  austere 
And  calm  indifference,  ye  little  care 
Whether  we   come   or   go,  or   whence   or 

where. 

What  passing  generations  fill  these  halls, 
What  passing  voices  echo  from  these  walls, 

1  In  October,  1874,  Mr.  Longfellow  was  urged  to 
write  a  poem  for  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  gradua- 
tion of  his  college  class,  to  be  held  the  next  summer. 
At  first  he  said  that  he  could  not  write  the  poem,  so 
averse  was  he  from  occasional  poems,  but  a  sudden 
thought  sefems  to  have  struck  him,  very  likely  upon 
seeing  a  representation  of  Gerome's  famous  picture, 
and  ten  days  later  he  notes  in  his  diary  that  he  had  fin- 
ished the  writing. 

The  painting  by  Gerome,  referred  to,  represents  a 
Roman  arena,  where  the  gladiators,  about  to  engage  in 
mortal  combat,  salute  the  emperor,  who  with  a  great 
concourse  of  people  is  to  witness  the  scene.  Beneath 
the  painting,  Gerome,  following  a  popular  tradition, 
wrote  the  words,  Ave  Caesar,  fmperator,  Morituri  te 
Salulant :  '  Hail,  Ca>sar,  Emperor  !  those  who  go  to 
their  death  salute  thee.'  The  reference  to  a  gladia- 
torial combat,  which  these  words  imply,  is  doubted  by 
some  scholars,  who  quote  ancient  authors  as  using  the 
phrase  in  connection  with  the  great  sea-fight  exhibition 
given  by  the  emperor  on  Lacus  Fucinus.  The  comba- 
tants on  that  occasion  were  condemned  criminals,  who 
were  to  fitrht  until  one  of  the  sides  was  slain,  unless 
spared  by  the  mercy  of  the  emperor.  (Riverside  Lit- 
erature Series.) 

Compare  Emerson's  '  Terminus,'  Holmes's  '  The  Iron 
Gate,'  Whittier's  '  To  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,'  etc. 


Ye  heed  not;  we  are  only  as  the  blast,      2t 
A  moment  heard,  and  then  forever  past. 

Not  so  the  teachers  who  in  earlier  days 
Led  our  bewildered  feet  through  learning's 

maze; 

They  answer  us  —  alas  !  what  have  I  said  ? 
What  greetings  come  there  from  the  voice- 
less dead  ? 

What  salutation,  welcome,  or  reply  ? 
What  pressure  from  the  hands  that  lifeless 

lie? 
They  are   no  longer  here;    they  all  are 

gone 

Into  the  land  of  shadows,  —  all  save  one.  3o 
Honor  and  reverence,  and  the  good  repute 
That  follows  faithful  service  as  its  fruit, 
Be  unto  him,  whom  living  we  salute. 

The  great  Italian  poet,  when  he  made 
His   dreadful    journey   to   the   realms   of 

shade, 

Met  there  the  old  instructor  of  his  youth, 
And  cried  in  tones  of  pity  and  of  ruth: 
'  Oh,  never  from  the  memory  of  my  heart 
Your  dear,  paternal  image  shall  depart, 
Who  while  on  earth,  ere  yet  by  death  sur- 
prised, 4o 
Taught  me  how  mortals  are  immortalized; 
How  grateful  am  I  for  that  patient  care 
All   my  life    long   my  language  shall  de- 
clare.' 2 

To-day  we  make  the  poet's  words  our  own, 
And  utter  them  in  plaintive  undertone; 
Nor  to  the  living  only  be  they  said, 
But  to  the  other  living  called  the  dead, 
Whose  dear,  paternal  images  appear 
Not  wrapped  in  gloom,  but  robed  in  sun- 
shine here; 

Whose  simple  lives,  complete  and  without 

flaw,  50 

Were  part  and  parcel  of   great   Nature's 

law; 

Who  said  not  to  their  Lord,  as  if  afraid, 
'  Here  is  thy  talent  in  a  napkin  laid,' 
But  labored  in  their  sphere,  as  men  who 

live 

In  the  delight  that  work  alone  can  give. 
Peace  be  to  them ;  eternal  peace  and  rest, 
And  the  fulfilment  of  the  great  behest: 
'  Ye  have  been  faithful  over  a  few  things, 
Over  ten  cities  shall  ye  reign  as  kings.' 
1  Dante   to   Brunetto  Latini.     Inferno,   Canto  IT, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


249 


And  ye  who  fill  the  places  we  once  filled,  60 
And  follow  in  the  furrows  that  we  tilled, 
Young   men,  whose   generous   hearts   are 

beating  high, 

We  who  are  old,  and  are  about  to  die, 
Salute  you;  hail  you;  take  your  hands  in 

ours, 
And  crown  you  with  our  welcome  as  with 

flowers ! 

How   beautiful   is   youth !    how   bright   it 

gleams 

With  its  illusions,  aspirations,  dreams  ! 
Book  of  Beginnings,  Story  without  End, 
Each  maid  a  heroine,  and  each   man   a 

friend  ! 

Aladdin's  Lamp,  and  Fortunatus'  Purse,  70 
That  holds  the  treasures  of  the  universe  ! 
All  possibilities  are  in  its  hands, 
No  danger  daunts  it,  and  no  foe  withstands; 
In  its  sublime  audacity  of  faith, 
'  Be  thou  removed  ! '   it  to  the    mountain 

saith, 

And  with  ambitious  feet,  secure  and  proud, 
Ascends  the  ladder  leaning  on  the  cloud  ! 

As  ancient  Priam  at  the  Scsean  gate 
Sat  on  the  walls  of  Troy  in  regal  state 
With  the  old   men,  too  old   and  weak  to 

fight,  So 

Chirping  like  grasshoppers  in  their  delight 
To  see  the  embattled  hosts,  with  spear  and 

shield, 

Of  Trojans  and  Achaians  in  the  field; 
So  from  the  snowy  summits  of  our  years 
We  see  you  in  the  plain,  as  each  appears, 
And  question  of  you;  asking,  '  Who  is  he 
That  towers  above   the   others  ?     Which 

may  be 

Atreides,  Menelaus,  Odysseus, 
Ajax  the  great,  or  bold  Idomeneus  ? ' 

Let  him  not  boast  who  puts  his  armor  on  90 

As  he  who  puts  it  off,  the  battle  done. 

Study  yourselves;  and  most  of  all  note 
well 

Wherein  kind  Nature  meant  you  to  excel. 

Not  every  blossom  ripens  into  fruit; 

Minerva,  the  inventress  of  the  flute, 

Flung  it  aside,  when  she  her  face  sur- 
veyed 

Distorted  hi  a  fountain  as  she  played; 

The  unlucky  Marsyas  found  it,  and  his 
fate 

Was  one  to  make  the  bravest  hesitate. 


Write  on  your  doors  the  saying  wise  and 

old,  too 

« Be  bold  !  be  bold  ! '  and  everywhere,  '  Be 

bold; 

Be  not  too  bold  ! '   Yet  better  the  excess 
Than  the  defect;  better  the  more  than  less; 
Better  like  Hector  in  the  field  to  die, 
Than  like  a  perfumed  Paris  turn  and  fly. 

And  now,  my  classmates ;  ye  remaining  few 
That  number  not  the  half  of  those  we  knew, 
Ye,  against  whose  familiar  names  not  yet 
The  fatal  asterisk  of  death  is  set, 
Ye  I  salute  !  The  horologe  of  Time         no 
Strikes    the    half-century    with    a   solemn 

chime, 

And  summons  us  together  once  again, 
The  joy  of  meeting  not  unmixed  with  pain. 

Where  are  the  others  ?    Voices  from  the 

deep 
Caverns  of  darkness   answer  me :    '  They 


I  name  no  names;  instinctively  I  feel 
Each  at  some  well-remembered  grave  will 

kneel, 
And  from  the  inscription  wipe  the  weeds 

and  moss, 

For  every  heart  best  knoweth  its  own  loss. 
I  see  their  scattered  gravestones  gleaming 

white  120 

Through  the  pale  dusk  of  the  impending 

night; 

O'er  all  alike  the  impartial  sunset  throws 
Its  golden  lilies  mingled  with  the  rose ; 
We  give  to  each  a  tender  thought,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  graveyards  with  their  tangled 

grass, 

Unto  these  scenes  frequented  by  our  feet 
When  we  were  young,  and  life  was  fresh 

and  sweet. 

What  shall  I  say  to  you  ?    What  can  I  say 
Better  than  silence  is  ?   When  I  survey 
This  throng  of  faces  turned  to  meet  my 

own,  j3o 

Friendly  and  fair,  and  yet  to  me  unknown, 
Transformed  the  very  landscape  seems  to 

be; 

It  is  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  to  me. 
So  many  memories  crowd  upon  my  brain, 
So  many  ghosts  are  in  the  wooded  plain, 
I   fain   would   steal   away,  with   noiseless 

tread, 
As  from  a  house  where  some  one  lieth  dead 


25° 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


I  cannot  go;  —  I  pause;  —  I  hesitate; 
My  feet  reluctant  linger  at  the  gate ; 
As  one  who  struggles  in  a  troubled  dream  140 
To  speak  and  cannot,  to  myself  I  seem. 

Vanish  the  dream  !  Vanish  the  idle  fears  ! 
Vanish  the  rolling  mists  of  fifty  years  ! 
Whatever  time  or  space  may  intervene, 
I  will  not  be  a  stranger  in  this  scene. 
Here  every  doubt,  all  indecision,  ends; 
Hail,  my  companions,  comrades,  classmates, 
friends ! 

Ah  me  !  the  fifty  years  since  last  we  met 
Seem  to  me  fifty  folios  bound  and  set 
By   Time,   the   great   transcriber,   on   his 
shelves,  150 

Wherein  are  written  the  histories  of  our- 


WThat  tragedies,  what  comedies,  are  there; 

What  joy  and  grief,  what  rapture  and  de- 
spair! 

What  chronicles  of  triumph  and  defeat, 

Of  struggle,  and  temptations,  and  retreat ! 

What  records  of  regrets,  and  doubts,  and 
fears ! 

What  pages  blotted,  blistered  by  our  tears  ! 

What  lovely  landscapes  on  the  margin 
shine, 

What  sweet,  angelic  faces,  what  divine 

And  holy  images  of  love  and  trust,  160 

Undimmed  by  age,  unsoiled  by  damp  or 
dust! 

Whose  hand  shall  dare  to  open  and  explore 
These  volumes,  closed  and  clasped  forever- 
more  ? 

Not  mine.  With  reverential  feet  I  pass; 
I  hear  a  voice  that  cries,  '  Alas  !  alas  ! 
Whatever  hath  been  written  shall  remain, 
Nor  be  erased  nor  written  o'er  again; 
The  unwritten  only  still  belongs  to  thee: 
Take  heed,  and  ponder  well  what  that  shall 
be.' 

As  children  frightened  by  a  thunder-cloud 
Are  reassured  if  some  one  reads  aloud  171 
A  tale  of  wonder,with  enchantment  fraught, 
Or  wild  adventure,  that  diverts  their 

thought, 

Let  me  endeavor  with  a  tale  to  chase 
The  gathering  shadows  of  the  time  and 

place, 

And  banish  what  we  all  too  deeply  feel 
Wholly  to  say,  or  wholly  to  conceal. 


In  medieval  Rome,  I  know  not  where, 
There  stood  an  image  with  its  arm  in  air, 
And  on  its  lifted  finger,  shining  clear,      180 
A   golden   ring  with   the   device,   'Strike 

here  ! ' 
Greatly  the  people  wondered,  though  none 

guessed 

The  meaning  that  these  words  but  half  ex- 
pressed, 

Until  a  learned  clerk  who  at  noonday 
With   downcast  eyes  was  passing   on   his 

way, 
Paused,  and  observed  the  spot,  and  marked 

it  well, 

Whereon  the  shadow  of  the  finger  fell; 
And,  coming  back  at  midnight,  delved,  and 

found 

A  secret  stairway  leading  underground. 
Down  this  he  passed  into  a  spacious  hall,  190 
Lit  by  a  flaming  jewel  on  the  wall; 
And  opposite,  in  threatening  attitude, 
With  bow  and  shaft  a  brazen  statue  stood. 
Upon  its  forehead,  like  a  coronet, 
Were  these  mysterious  words  of   menace 

set: 

'  That  which  I  am,  I  am ;  my  fatal  aim 
None  can  escape,  not  even   yon  luminous 


Midway  the  hall  was  a  fair  table  placed, 
With  cloth  of  gold,  and  golden  cups  en- 
chased 

With   rubies,  and   the   plates   and   knives 
were  gold,  200 

And  gold  the  bread  and  viands  manifold. 
Around  it,  silent,  motionless,  and  sad, 
Were  seated  gallant  knights  in  armor  clad, 
And  ladies  beautiful  with  plume  and  zone, 
But  they  were  stone,  their   hearts  within 

were  stone; 

And  the  vast  hall  was  filled  in  every  part 
With  silent  crowds,  stony  in  face  and  heart. 

Long  at  the  scene,  bewildered  and  amazed, 
The  trembling  clerk  in  speechless  wonder 

gazed; 
Then  from  the  table,  by  his  greed  made 

bold,  210 

He  seized  a  goblet  and  a  knife  of  gold, 
And  suddenly  from  their  seats  the  guests 

upsprang, 
The   vaulted    ceiling   with    loud   clamor? 

rang, 

The  archer  sped  his  arrow,  at  their  call, 
Shattering  the  lambent  jewel  on  the  wall. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


251 


And  all  was  dark  around  and  overhead;  — 
Stark  on  the  floor  the  luckless  clerk   lay 
dead! 

The  writer  of  this  legend  then  records 
Its  ghostly  application  in  these  words: 
The  image  is  the  Adversary  old,  22o 

Whose  beckoning  finger  points  to  realms  of 

gold; 
Our  lusts  and  passions  are  the  downward 

stair 

That  leads  the  soul  from  a  diviner  air; 
The  archer,  Death;  the  flaming  jewel, 

Life; 

Terrestrial  goods,  the  goblet  and  the  knife  j 
The  knights  and  ladies,  all  whose  flesh  and 

bone 

By  avarice  have  been  hardened  into  stone; 
The  clerk,  the  scholar  whom  the  love  of 

pelf 
Tempts  from  his  books  and  from  his  nobler 

self. 

The  scholar  and  the  world  !     The  endless 
strife,  230 

The  discord  in  the  harmonies  of  life  ! 
The  love  of  learning,  the  seqiiestered  nooks, 
And  all  the  sweet  serenity  of  books; 
The  market-place,  the  eager  love  of  gain, 
Whose  aim   is  vanity,  and  whose   end   is 
pain  ! 

But  why,  you  ask  me,  should  this  tale  be 

told 

To  men  grown  old,  or  who  are  growing  old  ? 
It  is  too  late  !     Ah,  nothing  is  too  late 
Till  the  tired  heart  shall  cease  to  palpitate. 
Cato  learned  Greek  at  eighty;  Sophocles  240 
Wrote  his  grand  CEdipus,  and  Simonides 
Bore  off  the  prize  of  verse  from  his  com- 
peers, 

When  each  had  numbered  more  than  four- 
score years, 

And  Theophrastus,  at  fourscore  and  ten, 
Had  but  bugun  his  '  Characters  of  Men.' 
Chaucer,  at  Woodstock  with  the  nightin- 
gale,',, 

At  sixty  wrote  the  Canterbury  Tales; 
Goethe  at  Weimar,  toiling  to  the  last, 
Completed  Faust  when  eighty  years  were 

past. 

These    are   indeed   exceptions;    but    they 
show  250 

How  far  the  gulf-stream  of  our  youth  may 
flow 


Into  the  arctic  regions  of  our  lives, 
Where  little  else  than  life  itself  survives. 

As  the  barometer  foretells  the  storm 
While  still  the  skies  are  clear,  the  weathei 

warm, 

So  something  in  us,  as  old  age  draws  near, 
Betrays  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere. 
The  nimble  mercury,  ere  we  are  aware, 
Descends  the  elastic  ladder  of  the  air; 
The  telltale  blood  in  artery  and  vein       26c 
Sinks  from  its  higher  levels  in  the  brain; 
Whatever  poet,  orator,  or  sage 
May  say  of  it,  old  age  is  still  old  age. 
It  is  the  waning,  not  the  crescent  moon; 
The    dusk   of   evening,   not   the    blaze   of 

noon; 

It  is  not  strength,  but  weakness;  not  de- 
sire, 

But  its  surcease ;  not  the  fierce  heat  of  fire, 
The  burning  and  consuming  element, 
But  that  of  ashes  and  of  embers  spent, 
In  which  some  living  sparks  we  still  dis- 
cern, 270 
Enough  to  warm,  but  not  enough  to  burn. 

What  then  ?     Shall  we  sit  idly  down  and 

say 

The  night  hath  come  ;  it  is  no  longer  day  ? 
The  night  hath  not  yet  come;  we  are  not 

quite 

Cut  off  from  labor  by  the  failing  light; 
Something  remains  for  us  to  do  or  dare ; 
Even  the  oldest  tree  some  fruit  may  bear; 
Not  (Edipus  Coloneus,  or  Greek  Ode, 
Or  tales  of  pilgrims  that  one  morning  rode 
Out  of  the  gateway  of  the  Tabard  Inn,    280 
But  other  something,  would  we  but  begin; 
For  age  is  opportunity  no  less 
Than  youth  itself,  though  in  another  dress, 
And  as  the  evening  twilight  fades  away 
The  sky  is  filled  with  stars,  invisible  by  day. 
1874.     "  1875. 


THE   HERONS   OF   ELMWOOD 1 

WARM  and  still  is  the  summer  night, 
As  here  by  the  river's  brink  I  wander; 

White  overhead  are  the  stars,  and  white 
The  glimmering   lamps   on   the  hillside 
yonder. 

1  '  Elmwood '  was  the  home  of  James  Russell  Lowell 
in  Cambridge,  about  a  hall  mile  distant  from  the  Long 
fellow  home. 


2S2 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Silent  are  all  the  sounds  of  day ; 

Nothing  I  hear  but  the  chirp  of  crickets, 
And  the  cry  of  the  herons  winging  their 

way 

O'er  the  poet's  house  in  the   Elmwood 
thickets. 

Call  to  him,  herons,  as  slowly  you  pass 
To  your  roosts  in  the  haunts  of  the  exiled 
thrushes,  10 

Sing  him  the  song  of  the  green  morass, 
And  the  tides  that  water  the  weeds  and 
rushes. 

Sing  him  the  mystical  Song  of  the  Hern, 
And  the  secret  that  baffles  our  utmost 


For  only  a  sound  of  lament  we  discern, 
And  cannot  interpret  the  words  you  are 
speaking. 

Sing  of  the  air,  and  the  wild  delight 

Of  wings  that  uplift  and  winds  that  up- 
hold you, 

The  joy  of  freedom,  the  rapture  of  flight 
Through  the  drift  of  the  floating  mists 
that  infold  you;  ao 

Of  the  landscape  lying  so  far  below, 

With  its   towns   and   rivers   and  desert 

places; 
And  the  splendor  of  light  above,  and  the 

glow 
Of  the  limitless,  blue,  ethereal  spaces. 

Ask  him  if  songs  of  the  Troubadours, 
Or  of  Minnesingers  in  old  black-letter, 

Sound  in  his  ears  more  sweet  than  yours, 
And  if  yours  are  not  sweeter  and  wilder 
and  better. 

Sing  to  him,  say  to  him,  here  at  his  gate, 
Where  the  boughs  of  the  stately  elms  are 
meeting,  30 

Borne  one  hath  lingered  to  meditate, 

And  send  him  unseen  this  friendly  greet- 


That  many  another  hath  done  the  same, 
Though  not  by  a  sound  was  the  silence 

broken; 

The  surest  pledge  of  a  deathless  name 
Is  the    silent   homage  of   thoughts   un- 
spoken. 
1876.  1877. 


IN    THE   CHURCHYARD   AT 
TARRYTOWN1 

HERE  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died 
In  the  bright  Indian  Summer  of  his  fame  ! 
A  simple  stone,  with  but  a  date  and  name, 
Marks  his  secluded  resting-place  beside 
The  river  that  he  loved  and  glorified. 
Here  in  the  autumn  of  his  days  he  came, 
But  the  dry  leaves  of  life  were  all  aflame 
With  tints  that  brightened  and  were  multi- 
plied. 

How  sweet  a  life  was  his ;  how  sweet  a  death! 
Living,  to  wing  with  mirth  the  weary  hours, 
Or  with  romantic  tales  the  heart  to  cheer; 
Dying,  to  leave  a  memory  like  the  breath 
Of  summers  full  of  sunshine  and  of  showers, 
A  grief  and  gladness  in  the  atmosphere. 
1876.  1877. 


THE   POETS 

O  YE  dead  Poets,  who  are  living  still 
Immortal  in  your  verse,  though  life  be  fled, 
And  ye,  O  living  Poets,  who  are  dead 
Though  ye  are  living,  if  neglect  can  kill, 
Tell  me  if  in  the  darkest  hours  of  ill, 
With  drops   of   anguish   falling   fast   and 


From  the  sharp  crown  of  thorns  upon  your 

head, 

Ye  were  not  glad  your  errand  to  fulfil? 
Yes;  for  the  gift  and  ministry  of  Song 
Have  something  in  them  so  divinely  sweet, 
It  can  assuage  the  bitterness  of  wrong; 
Not  in  the  clamor  of  the  crowded  street, 
Not  in  the  shouts  and  plaudits  of  the  throng, 
But  in  ourselves,  are  triumph  and  defeat. 
1876.  (1878.) 


NATURE 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 
Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 
And  leave   his  broken   playthings  on  the 

floor, 

Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 
Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 

1  The  burial-place  of  Washington  Irving.  On  Long- 
fellow's  great  admiration  for  Irving,  see  the  Life,  vol. 
i,  p.  12. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


253 


Which,  though    more    splendid,  may   not 

please  him  more; 

So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the  hand 
Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the  what 

we  know.1 
1876.  1877. 


VENICE 

WHITE  swan  of  cities,  slumbering  in  thy 

nest 

So  wonderfully  built  among  the  reeds 
Of  the  lagoon,  that  fences  thee  and  feeds, 
As  sayeth  thy  old  historian  and  thy  guest  ! 
White  water-lily,  cradled  and  caressed 
By  ocean  streams,  and  from  the  silt  and 

weeds 

Lifting  thy  golden  filaments  and  seeds, 
Thy  sun-illumined   spires,  thy  crown  and 

crest ! 
White    phantom    city,    whose    untrodden 

streets 
Are  rivers,  and  whose  pavements  are  the 

shifting 

Shadows  of  palaces  and  strips  of  sky; 
I  wait  to  see  thee  vanish  like  the  fleets 
Seen  in  mirage,  or  towers  of  cloud  uplifting 
In  air  their  unsubstantial  masonry. 
1876.  1877. 


VICTOR   AND   VANQUISHED 

As  one  who  long   hath  fled  with  panting 

breath 

Before  his  foe,  bleeding  and  near  to  fall, 
I  turn  and  set  my  back  against  the  wall, 
And  look  thee  in  the  face,  triumphant 

Death. 

I  call  for  aid,  and  no  one  answereth  ; 
I  am  alone  with  thee,  who  conquerest  all; 


1  Foremost  among  American  sonneteers  stands 
Longfellow,  the  only  member  of  the  supreme  group 
who  uses  this  form  with  ease  and  dignity.  Some  score 
of  examples  —  including  the  beautiful  '  Divina  Corn- 
media  '  series  —  •  might  be  selected  from  his  works  and 
compared  with  twenty  by  any  modern  English  poet, 
save  Wordsworth,  nor  lose  thereby  for  nobility  of  senti- 
ment and  graciousness  of  diction.  Wordsworth  himself 
might  have  been  proud  to  include  '  Nature,'  for  in- 
stance, among  his  finest  sonnets.  (WILLIAM  SHARP, 
American  Sonnets.) 


Yet  me  thy   threatening    form  doth    not 

appall, 

For  thou  art  but  a  phantom  and  a  wraith. 
Wounded  and  weak,  sword  broken  at  the 

hilt, 

With  armor  shattered,  and  without  a  shield, 
I  stand  unmoved;  do  with  me  what  thou 

wilt; 

I  can  resist  no  more,  but  will  not  yield. 
This  is  no  tournament  where  cowards  tilt; 
The  vanquished  here  is  victor  of  the  field. 
1876.  (1882.) 


THE   THREE   SILENCES   OF 
MOLINOS 

TO    JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 2 

THREE   Silences    there   are:   the    first  of 

speech, 

The  second  of  desire,  the  third  of  thought; 
This  is  the  lore  a  Spanish  monk,  distraught 
With  dreams  and  visions,  was  the  first  to 

teach. 
These    Silences,    commingling    each    with 

each, 

Made  up  the  perfect  Silence  that  he  sought 
And  prayed  for,  and  wherein  at  times  he 

caught 
Mysterious  sounds  from  realms  beyond  our 

reach. 

O  thou,  whose  daily  life  anticipates 
The  life  to  come,  and  in  whose  thought  and 

word 

The  spiritual  world  preponderates, 
Hermit  of  Amesbury  !  thou  too  hast  heard 
Voices  and  melodies  from  beyond  the  gates, 
And  speakest  only  when  thy  soul  is  stirred  ! 
1877.  (1878.) 


WAPENTAKE  8 

TO   ALFRED   TENNYSON 

POET  !  I  come  to  touch  thy  lance  with  mine; 
Not  as  a  knight,  who  on  the  listed  field 

2  Written  for  Whittier's  seventieth  birthday. 

3  When  any  came  to  take  the   government   of   the 
Hundred  or  Wapentake  in  a  day  and  place  appointed, 
as  they  were  accustomed  to  meete,  all  the  better  sort 
met  him  with  lances,  and  he  alighting  from  his  horse, 
all  rise  up  to  him,  and  he  setting  or  holding  his  lance 
upright,  all  the  rest  come  with  their  lances,  according 
to  the  auncient  custome  in  confirming  league  and  pub- 
like  peace  and  obedience,  and  touch  his  lance  or  wea- 
pon, and  thereof  called  Wapentake,  for  the  Saxon  or 


254 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Of  tourney  touched  his  adversary's  shield 
In  token  of  defiance,  but  in  sign 
Of  homage  to  the  mastery,  which  is  thine, 
In   English   song;    nor   will   I   keep  con- 
cealed, 

And  voiceless  as  a  rivulet  frost-congealed, 
My  admiration  for  thy  verse  divine. 
Not  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  song, 
Who  craze  the   brain  with  their  delirious 


Art  thou,  O  sweet  historian  of  the  heart ! 
Therefore   to   thee    the    laurel-leaves    be- 
long, 

To  thee  our  love  and  our  allegiance, 
For  thy  allegiance  to  the  poet's  art. 
1877.  '  1877. 


A   BALLAD    OF   THE   FRENCH 
FLEET  ! 

OCTOBER, 1746 

MR.  THOMAS  PRINCE  loquitur. 

A  FLEET  with  flags  arrayed 

Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 

The  signal:  '  Steer  southwest.' 
For  this  Admiral  D'Anville 

Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 
To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 

Our  helpless  Boston  Town. 

old  English  wnpun  is  weapon,  and  tac,  taclus,  a  touch- 
ing, thereby  this  meeting  called  Wapentake,  or  touch- 
ing of  weapon,  because  that  by  that  signe  and  ceremo- 
nie  of  touching  weapon  or  the  lance,  they  were  sworne 
and  confederate.  —  Master  Lainberd  in  Minshew. 
(LONGFELLOW.) 

i  After  the  capture  of  Louisburg  in  1745  by  the  Mas- 
sachusetts colonists,  the  French  in  revenge  sent  a  large 
fleet  against  Boston  the  next  year ;  but  it  was  so  dis- 
abled by  storms  that  it  had  to  put  back. 

Mr  Thomas  Prince  was  the  pastor  of  the  Old  South 
Meeting-house. 

In  1877,  when  the  Old  South  was  in  danger  of 
being  destroyed,  Rev.  Edward  Everett  Hale  wrote  to 
Longfellow  :  '  You  told  me  that  if  the  spirit  moved, 
you  would  try  to  sing  us  a  song  for  the  Old  South 
Meeting-house.  I  have  found  such  a  charming  story 
that  I  think  it  will  really  tempt  you.  I  want  at  least 
to  tell  it  to  you.  .  .  .  The  whole  story  of  the  fleet  is 
in  Hutchinson's  Massachusetts,  ii.  384,  385.  The  story 


of  Prince  and  the  prayer  is  in  a  tract  in  the  College 
Library,  which  I  will  gladly  send  you,  or  Mr.  Sibley 
will.  I  should  think  that  the  assembly  in  the  meeting- 


house in  the  gale,  and  then  the  terror  of  the  fleet  when 
the  gale  struck  them,  would  make  a  ballad  —  if  the 
spirit  moved  !  ' 

Compare  Whittier's  'In  the  Old  South'  and  'The 
Landmarks.'  and  Holmes's  '  An  Appeal  for  the  Old 
South.' 


There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear  m 

Of  the  coming  of  the  fleet, 

And  the  danger  hovering  near. 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 

Spread  the  tidings  of  dismay, 
I  stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly :  '  Let  us  pray  ! 

'  O  Lord  !  we  would  not  advise ; 

But  if  in  thy  Providence 
A  tempest  should  arise 

To  drive  the  French  Fleet  hence,       20 
And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea, 
We  should  be  satisfied, 

And  thine  the  glory  be.' 

This  was  the  prayer  I  made, 

For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame, 
And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came; 
It  came  with  a  mighty  power, 

Shaking  the  windows  and  walls,         3< 
And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower, 

As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 

The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword, 
And  I  cried:  '  Stand  still,  and  see 

The  salvation  of  the  Lord  ! ' 
The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud, 

The  sea  was  white  with  hail, 
And  ever  more  fierce  and  loud 

Blew  the  October  gale.  4o 

The  fleet  it  overtook, 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 
Like  the  tents  of  Cushan  shook, 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midian. 
Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o'erw helming  seasj 
Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 

So  pitiful  as  these  ! 

Like  a  potter's  vessel  broke 

The  great  ships  of  the  line;  50 

They  were  carried  away  as  a  smoke, 

Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 
O  Lord  !  before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be, 
When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 

With  thine  horses  through  the  sea  f 
1877.  1877. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


255 


SONG 

STAY,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest; 

Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest, 

For    those    that   wander    they   know   not 

where 

Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Weary  and  homesick  and  distressed, 
They  wander  east,  they  wander  west, 
And  are  baffled  and  beaten  and  blown 

about 

By  the  winds  of  the  wilderness  of  doubt: 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest; 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest; 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly 
A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky; 

To  stay  at  home  is  best. 
1877.  1878. 


FROM    MY   ARM-CHAIR 


TO   THE    CHILDREN    OF   CAMBRIDGE 

WHO  PRESENTED  TO  ME,  ON  MY  SEVENTY- 
SECOND  BIRTHDAY,  FEBRUARY  2J,  1879,  THIS 
CHAIR  MADE  FROM  THE  WOOD  OF  THE  VIL- 
LAGE BLACKSMITH'S  CHESTNUT  TREE.  ! 

AM  I  a  king,  that  I  should  call  my  own 

This  splendid  ebon  throne  ? 
Or  by  what  reason,  or  what  right  divine, 

Can  I  proclaim  it  mine  ? 

Only,  perhaps,  by  right  divine  of  song 

It  may  to  me  belong; 
Only  because  the  spreading  chestnut  tree 

Of  old  was  sung  by  me. 

Well  I  remember  it  in  all  its  prime, 

When  in  the  summer-time  10 

The  affluent  foliage  of  its  branches  made 
A  cavern  of  cool  shade. 

There,  by  the  blacksmith's   forge,  beside 

the  street, 
Its  blossoms  white  and  sweet 

1  For  an  account  of  the  chair,  with  its  inscriptions, 
see  the  Life,  vol.  iii,  pp.  446^48.  Longfellow  gave 
orders  that  every  child  who  wished  to  see  the  chair 
and  sit  in  it  should  be  allowed  to  do  so ;  and  had  a 
large  number  of  copies  of  this  poem  printed,  one  of 
which  was  given  to  each  child  who  wished  it. 


Enticed  the  bees,  until  it  seemed  alive, 
And  murmured  like  a  hive. 

And  when  the  winds  of   autumn,  with  a 

shout, 

Tossed  its  great  arms  about, 
The  shining  chestnuts,  bursting  from  the 

sheath, 
Dropped  to  the  ground  beneath.         20 

And  now  some  fragments  of  its  branches 

bare, 

Shaped  as  a  stately  chair,  • 

Have  by  my  hearthstone  found  a  home  at 

last, 
And  whisper  of  the  past. 

The    Danish    king    could    not    in    all   his 
pride 

Repel  the  ocean  tide, 
But,  seated  in  this  chair,  I  can  in  rhyme 

Roll  back  the  tide  of  Time. 

I  see  again,  as  one  in  vision  sees, 

The  blossoms  and  the  bees,  30 

And  hear  the  children's  voices  shout  and 

call, 
And  the  brown  chestnuts  fall. 

I  see  the  smithy  with  its  fires  aglow, 

I  hear  the  bellows  blow, 
And  the  shrill  hammers-  on  the  anvil  beat 

The  iron  white  with  heat  ! 

And  thus,  dear  children,  have  ye  made  for 

me 

This  day  a  jubilee, 
And  to  my  more  than  threescore  years  and 

ten 
Brought  back  my  youth  again.  40 

The  heart  hath  its  own  memory,  like  the 

mind, 

And  in  it  are  enshrined 
The    precious    keepsakes,    into    which    is 

wrought 
The  giver's  loving  thought. 

Only   your   love    and   your   remembrance 

could 

Give  life  to  this  dead  wood, 
And  make  these  branches,  leafless  now  so 

long, 

Blossom  again  in  song. 
1879,  187fl 


256 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


ROBERT   BURNS1 

I  SEE  amid  the  fields  of  Ayr 

A  ploughman,  who,  in  foul  and  fair, 

Sings  at  his  task 
So  clear,  we  know  not  if  it  is 
The  laverock's  song  we  hear,  or  his, 

Nor  care  to  ask. 

For  him  the  ploughing  of  those  fields 
A  more  ethereal  harvest  yields 

Than  sheaves  of  grain; 
Songs  flush  with  purple  bloom  the  rye,      10 
The  plover's  call,  the  curlew's  cry, 

Sing  in  his  brain. 

Touched  by  his  hand,  the  wayside  weed 
Becomes  a  flower;  the  lowliest  reed 

Beside  the  stream 

Is  clothed  with  beauty;  gorse  and  grass 
And  heather,  where  his  footsteps  pass, 

The  brighter  seem. 

He  sings  of  love,  whose  flame  illumes 
The  darkness  of  lone  cottage  rooms;          20 

He  feels  the  force, 
The  treacherous  undertow  and  stress 
Of  wayward  passions,  and  no  less 

The  keen  remorse. 

At  moments,  wrestling  with  his  fate, 
His  voice  is  harsh,  .but  not  with  hate; 

The  brush- wood,  hung 
Above  the  tavern  door,  lets  fall 
Its  bitter  leaf,  its  drop  of  gall 

Upon  his  tongue.  30 

But  still  the  music  of  his  song 
Rises  o'er  all,  elate  and  strong; 

Its  master-chords 

Are  Manhood,  Freedom,  Brotherhood, 
Its  discords  but  an  interlude 

Between  the  words. 

And  then  to  die  so  young  and  leave 
Unfinished  what  he  might  achieve  ! 

Yet  better  sure 

Is  this,  than  wandering  up  and  down,        40 
An  old  man  in  a  country  town, 

Infirm  and  poor. 

For  now  he  haunts  his  native  land 
As  an  immortal  youth ;  his  hand 

1  Compare  the  poems  on  Burns  by  Whittier,  Lowell 
('  At  the  Burns  Centennial,'  and  '  Incident  in  a  Rail- 
road Car '),  Holmes,  Wordsworth,  etc. 


Guides  every  plough; 
He  sits  beside  each  ingle-nook, 
His  voice  is  in  each  rushing  brook, 

Each  rustling  bough.' 

His  presence  haunts  this  room  to-night, 
A  form  of  mingled  mist  and  light  50 

From  that  far  coast. 
Welcome  beneath  this  roof  of  mine  ! 
Welcome  !  this  vacant  chair  is  thine, 

Dear  guest  and  ghost  ! 
7*79.  1880. 


THE    TIDE    RISES,   THE    TIDE 
FALLS 

THE  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls, 
The  twilight  darkens,  the  curlew  calls; 
Along  the  sea-sands  damp  and  brown 
The  traveller  hastens  toward  the  town, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

Darkness  settles  on  roofs  and  walls, 

But  the  sea,  the  sea  in  the  darkness  calls; 

The    little    waves,  with  their  soft,  white 

hands, 

Efface  the  footprints  in  the  sands, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

The  morning  breaks;   the  steeds  in  their 

stalls 

Stamp  and  neigh,  as  the  hostler  calls; 
The  day  returns,  but  nevermore 
Returns  the  traveller  to  the  shore, 

And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 
1879.  (1880.) 


JUGURTHA 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo  ! 

Cried  the  African  monarch,  the  splendid, 

As  down  to  his  death  in  the  hollow 

Dark  dungeons  of  Rome  he  descended, 
Uncrowned,  unthroned,  unattended; 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo  ! 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo  ! 

Cried  the  Poet,  unknown,  unbefriended, 

As  the  vision,  that  lured  him  to  follow, 
With  the  mist  and  the  darkness  blended, 
And  the  dream  of  his  life  was  ended; 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo  ! 

1879.  (1880.) 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


257 


THE  CROSS  OF  SNOW* 

IK  the  long,  sleepless  watches  of  the  night, 
A  gentle  face  —  the  face  of  one  long  dead  — 
Looks  at  me  from  the  wall,  where  round 

its  head 

The  night-lamp  easts  a  halo  of  pale  light. 
Here  in  this  room  she  died;  and  soul  more 

white 

Never  through  martyrdom  of  fire  was  led 
To  its  repose;  nor  can  in  books  be  read 
The  legend  of  a  life  more  benedight. 
There  is  a  mountain  in  the  distant  West, 
That,  sun-defying,  in  its  deep  ravines 
Displays  a  cross  of  snow  upon  its  side. 
Such  is  the  cross  I  wear  upon  my  breast 
These  eighteen  years,  through  all  the  chang- 
ing scenes 
And  seasons,  changeless  since  the  day  she 

died. 
1879.  1886. 


NIGHT 

INTO  the  darkness  and  hush  of  night 
Slowly  the  landscape  sinks,  and  fades  away, 
And  with  it  fade  the  phantoms  of  the  day, 
The  ghosts  of  men  and  things,  that  haunt 

the  light. 
The  crowd,   the  clamor,  the   pursuit,   the 

flight, 

The  unprofitable  splendor  and  display, 
The  agitations,  and  the  cares  that  prey 
Upon  our  hearts,  all  vanish  out  of  sight. 
The  better  life  begins ;  the  world  no  more 
Molests  us;  all  its  records  we  erase 
From  the  dull  commonplace  book  of  our 

lives, 

That  like  a  palimpsest  is  written  o'er 
With  trivial  incidents  of  time  and  place, 
And  lo  !  the  ideal,  hidden  beneath,  revives. 
1879.  (1880.) 


L'ENVOI 

THE   POET   AND   HIS    SONGS 

As  the  birds  come  in  the  spring, 
We  know  not  from  where; 

As  the  stars  come  at  evening 
From  depths  of  the  air; 

As  the  rain  comes  from  the  cloud, 
And  the  brook  from  the  ground; 

1  See  the  note  on  '  Divina  Commedia,'  p.  240. 


As  suddenly,  low  or  loud, 
Out  of  silence  a  sound; 

As  the  grape  comes  to  the  vine, 

The  fruit  to  the  tree; 
As  the  wind  comes  to  the  pine, 

And  the  tide  to  the  sea; 

As  come  the  white  sails  of  ships 

O'er  the  ocean's  verge; 
As  comes  the  smile  to  the  lips, 

The  foam  to  the  surge; 

So  come  to  the  Poet  his  songs, 

All  hitherward  blown 
From  the  misty  realm,  that  belongs 

To  the  vast  Unknown. 

His,  and  not  his,  are  the  lays 
He  sings;  and  their  fame 

Is  his,  and  not  his;  and  the  praise 
And  the  pride  of  a  name. 

For  voices  pursue  him  by  day, 

And  haunt  him  by  night, 
And  he  listens,  and  needs  must  obey, 

When  the  Angel  says,  '  Write  ! ' 
1880.  1880. 


POSSIBILITIES2 

WHERE  are  the  Poets,  unto  whom  belong 
The    Olympian     heights;     whose    singing 

shafts  were  sent 
Straight  to  the  mark,  and  not  from  bows 

half  bent, 

But  with  the  utmost  tension  of  the  thong  ? 
Where  are  the  stately  argosies  of  song, 
Whose  rushing  keels  made  music  as  they 

went 

Sailing  in  search  of  some  new  continent, 
With  all  sail   set,  and   steady  winds  and 

strong  ?  • 

Perhaps  there  lives  some  dreamy  boy,  un- 
taught 
In  schools,  some  graduate  of  the  field  or 

street, 

Who  shall  become  a  master  of  the  art, 
An  admiral  sailing  the  high  seas  of  thought, 
Fearless  and  first,  and  steering  with  his 

fleet 

For  lands  not  yet  laid  down  in  any  chart. 

1882.  18?'' 

*  This  is  the  last,  but  two,  of  Longfellow's  poems. 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


THE   BELLS   OF   SAN   BLAS1 

WHAT  say  the  Bells  of  San  Bias 
To  the  ships  that  southward  pass 

From  the  harbor  of  Mazatlan  ? 
To  them  it  is  nothing  more 
Than  the  sound  of  surf  on  the  shore,  — 

Nothing  more  to  master  or  man. 

But  to  me,  a  dreamer  of  dreams, 
To  whom  what  is  and  what  seems 

Are  often  one  and  the  same,  — 
The  Bells  of  San  Bias  to  me  to 

Have  a  strange,  wild  melody, 

And  are  something  more  than  a  name. 

For  bells  are  the  voice  of  the  church; 
They  have  tones  that  touch  and  search 

The  hearts  of  young  and  old; 
One  sound  to  all,  yet  each 
Lends  a  meaning  to  their  speech, 

And  the  meaning  is  manifold. 

They  are  a  voice  of  the  Past, 

Of  an  age  that  is  fading  fast,  20 

Of  a  power  austere  and  grand; 
When  the  flag  of  Spain  unfurled 
Its  folds  o'er  this  western  world, 

And  the  priest  was  lord  of  the  knd. 

The  chapel  that  once  looked  down 
On  the  little  seaport  town 

Has  crumbled  into  the  dust; 
And  on  oaken  beams  below 
The  bells  swing  to  and  fro, 

And  are  green  with  mould  and  rust.  30 

'  Is,  then,  the  old  faith  dead,' 
They  say, '  and  in  its  stead 

1  Longfellow's  last  poem,  written  (except  the  con- 
cluding stanza)  on  March  12,  1882.  The  subject  was 
suggested  by  a  few  lines  of  an  article  on  Mexico,  in 
Harpers  Magazine  for  March,  telling  of  the  destroyed 
convent  of  San  Bias  (on  the  Pacific  Coast)  and  its  bells. 


Is  some  new  faith  proclaimed, 
That  we  are  forced  to  remain 
Naked  to  sun  and  rain, 

Unsheltered  and  ashamed  ? 

'  Once  in  our  tower  aloof 
We  rang  over  wall  and  roof 

Our  warnings  and  our  complaints; 
And  round  about  us  there  40 

The  white  doves  filled  the  air, 

Like  the  white  souls  of  the  saints. 

'  The  saints  !     Ah,  have  they  grown 
Forgetful  of  their  own  ? 

Are  they  asleep,  or  dead, 
That  open  to  the  sky 
Their  ruined  Missions  lie, 

No  longer  tenanted  ? 

'  Oh,  bring  us  back  once  more 

The  vanished  days  of  yore,  5<J 

When  the  world  with  faith  was  filled; 
Bring  back  the  fervid  zeal, 
The  hearts  of  fire  and  steel, 

The  hands  that  believe  and  build. 

'  Then  from  our  tower  again 
We  will  send  over  laud  and  main 

Our  voices  of  command, 
Like  exiled  kings  who  return 
To  their  thrones,  and  the  people  learn 

That  the  Priest  is  lord  of  the  land  ! '  60 

O  Bells  of  San  Bks,  in  vain 
Ye  call  back  the  Past  again  ! 

The  Past  is  deaf  to  your  prayer; 
Out  of  the  shadows  of  night 
The  world  rolls  into  light ; 

It  is  daybreak  everywhere.2 


s  These  were  Longfellow's  last  verses.  He  added 
the  concluding  stanza  of  the  poem,  written  in  a  firm 
hand,  and  dated,  only  nine  days  before  his  death. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


THE   VAUDOIS   TEACHER1 

'  O  LADY  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beau- 
tiful and  rare, — 

The  richest  web  of  the  Indian  loom,  which 
beauty's  queen  might  wear; 

And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck, 
with  whose  radiant  light  they  vie; 

I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way, 
—  will  my  .gentle  lady  buy  ?  ' 

The   lady  smiled   on    the  worn   old   man 

through    the    dark    and   clustering 

curls 
Which  veiled  her  brow,  as  she  bent  to  view 

his  silks  and  glittering  pearls ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's 

hand  and  lightly  turned  away, 
But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest 

call,  —  '  My  gentle  lady,  stay  ! 

1  This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  account  given  of 
the  manner  in  which  the  Waldenses  disseminated  their 
principles  among  the  Catholic  gentry.  They  gained 
access  to  the  house  through  their  occupation  as  ped- 
dlers of  silks,  jewels,  and  trinkets.  '  Having  disposed 
of  some  of  their  goods,'  it  is  said  by  a  writer  who 
quotes  the  inquisitor  Hainerus  Sacco,  '  they  cautiously 
intimated  that  they  had  commodities  far  more  valuable 
than  these,  inestimable  jewels,  which  they  would  show 
it  they  could  be  protected  from  the  clergy.  They 
would  then  give  their  purchasers  a  Bible  or  Testament, 
and  thereby  many  were  deluded  into  heresy.'  (WHIT- 
TIEB.) 

The  poem  was  early  translated  into  French  and 
Italian,  and  became  a  favorite  among  all  the  Wal- 
denses,  who  however  did  not  know  of  its  American 
origin.  When  the  Waldensian  synod  learned  of  this,  in 
1875,  they  instructed  their  Moderator  to  send  Whittier 
a  letter  of  thanks  and  appreciation.  This  letter,  which 
Whittier  greatly  prized,  began  :  — 

'  Dear  and  Honored  Brother,  —  I  have  recently 
learned  by  a  letter  from  my  friend,  J.  C.  Fletcher,  now 
residing  in  Naples,  that  you  are  the  author  of  the 
charming  little  poem,  "The  Vaudois  Colporteur,"  which 
was  translated  several  years  ago  in  French  by  Profes- 
sor de  Felice',  of  Montauban,  and  of  which  there  is  also 
an  excellent  Italian  translation,  made  by  M.  Giovanni 
Nicolini,  Professor  of  our  College  at  Torre'  Pellice". 
There  is  not  a  single  Vaudois  who  has  received  any 
education  who  cannot  repeat  from  memory  "  The  Vau- 
dois Colporteur  "  in  French  or  in  Italian.' 

See  the  whole  letter,  in  Pickard's  Life  of  Whittier, 
vol.  ii,  pp.  607-308.  Whittier's  reply  (given  in  the  Life, 
pp.  608-609)  was  translated  into  Italian  and  circulated 
throughout  Italy. 


'O  lady  fair,  I  have   yet  a  gem  which  a 

purer  lustre  flings, 
Than  the   diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled 

crown  on  the  lofty  brow  of  kings'; 
A   wonderful    pearl    of    exceeding  price, 

whose  virtue  shall  not  decay, 
Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and 

a  blessing  on  thy  way  !  ' 

The   lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel 

where  her  form  of  grace  was  seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark 

locks   waved   their   clasping   pearls 

between; 
'  Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth, 

thou  traveller  gray  and  old, 
And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem, 

and  my  page  shall  count  thy  gold.' 

The    cloud   went   off    from    the   pilgrim's 

brow,  as  a  small  and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from 

his  folding  robe  he  took  ! 
'  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may 

it  prove  as  such  to  thee  ! 
Nay,  keep  thy  gold  —  I  ask  it  not,  for  the 

word  of  God  is  free  ! ' 

The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the 

gift  he  left  behind 
Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that 

highborn  maiden's  mind, 
And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin 

to  the  lowliness  of  truth, 
And  given  her  human  heart  tq  God  in  its 

beautiful  hour  of  youth  ! 


And  she  hath  left  the 


:,  where 


ie  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls 

an  evil  faith  had  power, 
The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train, 

and  the  maidens  of  her  bower; 
And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by 

lordly  feet  untrod, 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are 

rich  in  the  perfect  love  of  God  ! 

1830 


26o 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


TO  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON1 

CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan  beneath 

Oppression's  iron  hand: 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on,  for  thou  hast  chosen  well; 
•  On  in  the  strength  of  God !  10 

Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

1  The  earliest  poem  in  this  division  [the  Anti-Slavery 
Poems]  was  my  youthful  tribute  to  the  great  reformer 
when,  himself  a  young  man,  he  was  sounding  his  trum- 
pet in  Essex  County.  (WHITTIEE.) 

On  Whittier's  early  relations  with  Garrison,  see 
Pickard's  Life  of  Whittier,  pp.  50-52.  See  also  the  arti- 
cle on  Garrison  in  Whittier's  Prose  Works,  iii,  189-192. 

Whittier's  anti-slavery  poems  must  necessarily  oc- 
cupy a  large  place  in  any  selection  at  all  representative 
of  his  work.  For  more  than  thirty  years  they  formed 
the  chief  part  of  his  poetical  production.  Even  to-day 
no  one  can  fail  to  recognize  the  intense  sincerity  and 
strength  of  such  poems  as  '  Expostulation,'  'Massachu- 
setts to  Virginia,'  '  Ichabod,'  '  The  Rendition,'  etc.  On 
his  r81e  in  the  anti-slavery  movement,  and  the  sacrifices 
which  he  made  to  it,  see  especially  Professor  Carpen- 
ter's Whittier,  chapters  iv  and  v.  See  also  the  notes  on 
'Ichabed'  and  on  Lowell's  'Stanzas  on  Freedom,'  and 
the  passage  on  Whittier  in  Lowell's  '  Fable  for  Critics.' 

After  the  war  Whittier  was  one  of  the  most  earnest 
workers  against  sectional  prejudice  in  the  North.  It 
was  largely  through  his  efforts  that  the  vote  of  censure 
against  Sumner,  who  wished  Civil  War  names  expunged 
from  army  flags,  was  repealed.  But  he  would  never 
consent  that  the  anti-slavery  poems  should  be  omitted 
from  any  edition  of  his  works.  His  attitude  is  well 
shown  by  a  passage  in  Pickard's  Life  of  Whittier,  with 
its  significant  quotation  from  one  of  his  letters :  — 

'  Some  other  American  poets,  even  those  who  had 
written  bravely  against  the  system  of  slavery,  consented 
to  leave  out  of  their  collected  works  such  poems  as 
would  be  offensive  to  their  Southern  readers.  Whittier 
never  made  this  concession  .  .  .  and  issued  no  edition 
of  his  works  that  did  not  present  him  as  an  uncompro- 
mising foe  of  slavery.  But  it  was  easy  to  see  that  his 
enmity  to  the  institution  did  not  extend  to  individuals. 
All  his  life  he  numbered  among  his  personal  friends 
not  only  apologists  for  slavery,  but  slaveholders  them- 
selves. In  replying  to  the  charge  of  a  Southern  paper 
that  he  was  an  enemy  of  the  South,  he  once  wrote  to  a 
friend :  "  I  was  never  an  enemy  to  the  South  or  the 
holders  of  slaves.  I  inherited  from  my  Quaker  ances- 
try hatred  of  slavery,  but  not  of  slaveholders.  To  every 
call  of  suffering  or  distress  in  the  South  I  have  promptly 
responded  to  the  extent  of  my  ability.  I  was  one  of  the 
very  first  to  recognize  the  rare  gift  of  the  Carolinian  poet 
Timrod,  and  I  was  the  intimate  friend  of  the  lamented 
Paul  H.  Hayne,  though  both  wrote  fiery  lyrics  against 
the  North." ' 

This  poem  was  read  at  the  Convention  in  Philadelphia 
which  founded  the  American  Anti-Slavery  Society,  in 
December,  1833.  Whittier  was  a  delegate  from  Massa- 
chusetts. '  I  set  a  higher  value  on  my  name  as  appended 
to  the  Anti-Slavery  Declaration  of  1833,'  he  said  in  later 
life,  'than  on  the  title-page  of  any  book.' 


As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear, 
The  fetter's  link  be  broken  ! 

I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill.  20 

My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords  ! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain, 

A  searcher  after  fame; 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart,  3o 

To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long  ? 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong  ? 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee  ?  40 

Go  on,  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom; 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom  ! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord  ! 

1831. 

RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE* 

O  MOTHER  EARTH  !  upon  thy  lap 
Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 

And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 
Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 

»  In  an  article  published  in  the  Essex  Gazette,  in 
July,  1833,  less  than  a  month  after  Randolph's  death, 
Whittier  says  :  '  The  late  noble  example  of  the  eloquent 
statesman  of  Roanoke,  the  manumission  of  his  slaves, 
speaks  volumes  to  his  political  friends.  In  the  last  hour 
of  his  existence,  when  his  soul  was  struggling  from  its 
broken  tenement,  his  latest  effort  was  the  confirmation 
of  this  generous  act  of  a  former  period.  Light  rest  the 
turf  upon  him,  beneath  his  patrimonial  oaks !  The 
prayers  of  many  hearts  made  happy  by  his  benevolence 
shall  linger  over  his  grave,  and  bless  it.'  The  poem  was 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


261 


Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 
That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 

And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 
Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning  ;  10 

Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
\nd,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing,  20 

He  sleeps,  still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune  !  in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting,  — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn  like  lightning  blasting; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon,  30 

The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing.  40 

All  parties  feared  him:  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing. 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished,  5o 

probably  written,  according  to  Mr.  Pickard,  at  the  same 
time  as  the  article.  It  was  printed  in  the  first  number 
of  the  National  Era  issued  after  Whittier  became  cor- 
responding editor,  in  January,  1847. 


Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion  ! 

Still    through    each     change    of    fortune 
strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning  ;  6c 

By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  tide, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning,  70 

Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves;  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman  ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured.  So 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

Oh,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver  !  90 

None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  wfth  clearer  eye 
The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 


262 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 
Along  her  future  treading.  100 

For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 
When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 

He  traced  with  dying  hand  '  Remorse  f ' 
And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling,  no 

Virginia!  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling  ! 

And  hark  !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled 
sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee,  —  wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving  ! 
Oh,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living  !  120 

1833  ?  1847. 

EXPOSTULATION  1 

OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 

Slaves,  in  a  land  of  light  and  law  ! 
Slaves,  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood, 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell, 

1  Dr.  Charles  Follen,  a  German  patriot,  who  had 
come  to  America  for  the  freedom  which  was  denied 
him  in  his  native  land,  allied  himself  with  the  aboli- 
tionists, and  at  a  convention  of  delegates  from  all  the 
anti-slavery  organizations  in  New  England,  held  at 
Boston  in  May,  18&i,  was  chairman  of  a  committee  to 
prepare  an  address  to  the  people  of  New  England. 
Toward  the  close  of  the  address  occurred  the  passage 
which  suggested  these  lines  :  — 

'  The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could  not  bear  in 
their  native  country  is  expiring,  and  the  sword  of  jus- 
tice in  her  reformed  hands  has  applied  its  exterminat- 
ing edge  to  slavery.  Shall  the  United  States  —  the  free 
United  States,  which  could  not  bear  the  bonds  of  a 
king —  cradle  the  bondage  which  a  king  is  abolishing  ? 
Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  than  a  Monarchy  ?  Shall 
we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoyancy  of  our  manhood,  be  less 
energetic  hi  righteousness  than  a  kingdom  in  its  age  ?  ' 

(WHnTTBK.) 

The  original  title  of  the  poem  was  simply  '  Stanzas,' 
and  later  it  was  called  '  Follen.'  Garrison  said  of  it 
when  it  first  appeared  :  — 

'  Our  gifted  Brother  Whittier  has  again  seized  the 
great  trumpet  of  Liberty,  and  blown  a  blast  that  shall 
ring  from  Maine  to  the  Rocky  Mountains.' 

The  poem  became  popular  throughout  the  North  and 
West,  and  was  for  many  years  a  favorite  at  declamation 
contests  and  anti-slavery  meetings. 


By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 
From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  well  I 

By  storied  bill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen,  10 

Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men  ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there, 

The  falling  lash,  the  fetter's  clank  ! 
Slaves,  slaves  are  breathing  in  that  air 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank  ! 

What  ho  !  our  countrymen  in  chains  ! 

The  whip  on  woman's  shrinking  flesh  ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and 

fresh !  20 

What !  mothers  from  their  children  riven  ! 

What !  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold ! 
Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold  I 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light ;  30 

Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  ? 

What !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ?     4o 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall, 
And  Poknd,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  slave,  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain  ? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 

Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ?  5o 

And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 
By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 

And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 
Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WH1TTIER 


263 


And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain 
From  fettered  soul  and  limb  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
From  farthest  Ind  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  ?       60 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  ? 

Go,  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the' struggling  Suliote; 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ : 
*  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home,  7 1 

Then  turn  and  ask  the  like  of  us  ! ' 

Just  God  !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The  Christian's  scovn,the  heathen's  mirth, 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear  ? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part,  81 

From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 
Up  !  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing  ! 
Up  !  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood  around  our  altars  flowing  ! 

Oh  !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth, 
The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man,    90 

Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 
When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 

Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air  ? 
Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 


Up,  up  !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 
The  sleeper  only 


wakes  in  death  ? 


Rise  now  for  Freedom  !  not  in  strife 
Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw, 

The  awful  waste  of  human  life, 
The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war: 

But  break  the  chain,  the  yoke  remove, 
And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 


With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 
Made  mighty  through  the  living  God  ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood; 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given,  no 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven ! 
1834.  1834. 

THE   FAREWELL1 

OF  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  HER 
DAUGHTERS  SOLD  INTO  SOUTHERN 
BONDAGE 

GONE,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 
Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air; 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone,          w 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them.  30 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waterp; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Oh,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again,  30 

There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them, 

i  Of  all  "Whittier's  anti-slavery  poems  this  approaches 
nearest   to  the    half-romantic  style    of   Longfellow'l 
Slavery.' 


264 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  1 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play;         40 
From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank; 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank; 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there; 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone;     50 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 
Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  !       60 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth; 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth; 
Oh,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone,      7o 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

1838. 

THE   MERRIMAC 

STREAM  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill  ; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 
I  see  the  winding  Povvow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 


Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There  's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide  tc 

As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current;  not  a  sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade,  20 

But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 
Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 
And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 
Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail, 
Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale; 
And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 
The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak,    30 
As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye 
Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 
Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 
The  Merrimac  rolled  down  his  flood; 
Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brock, 
Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 
When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 
The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 
And  more  abundant  waters  given 
From    that    pure    lake,    '  The    Smile    of 
Heaven,' 1  40 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain-side,  — 
With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood,- 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled,      50 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory  * 

1  Winnipe.«aukee.  The  Indian  v.ame  was  thought  to 
mean  '  The  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit.'  See  '  The  Lake- 
side '  and  '  Summer  by  the  Lakeside.' 

*  The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  resigning  the 
government  of  the  Colony  in  Virginia,  in  his  capacity 
of  '  Admiral  of  New  England.'  made  a  careful  survey 
of  the  coast  from  Penobscot  to  Cape  Cod,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1614.  (WHITTIER.) 

»  Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory  now  called 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


265 


The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story; 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose   harems   look    on   Stamboul's   wa- 
ters, — 

Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave  61 

A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look  !  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin, 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim,  7o 

While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil  ! 

Home  of  my  fathers  !  —  I  have  stood 

Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood: 

Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 

Along  his  frowning  Palisade; 

Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 

On  Juniata's  silver  streak ;  80 

Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 

The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream; 

The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 

Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine; 

And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 

Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna; 

Yet  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 

Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee  ! 

Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 

Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound,  90 

The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 

Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore; 

And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 

And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 

Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass; 

As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 

The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 

Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew, 

Bathed  still  in  childhood's  morning  dew, 

Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept       100 

Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 

Cape  Ann,  the  name  of  Tragabizanda,  in  memory  of 
his  young  and  beautiful  mistress  of  that  name,  who, 
while  he  was  a  captive  at  Constantinople,  like  Desde- 
mona,  'loved  him  for  the  dangers  he  had  passed.' 
(WHTTTIEK.) 


Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had  slept; 
And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown,  — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  i 

1841. 

MEMORIES  l 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, a 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 
Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of  pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of  unconfined  and  flowing  hair  ; 
A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save    thoughtful     brow    and     ripening 

charms, 
As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light  10 

Which    melted     through     its    graceful 

bower, 

Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower: 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How   thrills    once   more   the   lengthening 
chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee  !      20 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain, 
Old  dreams,  come  thronging  back  again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

1  It  was  not  without  thought  and  deliberation,  that 
in  1888  he  directed  this  poem  to  be  placed  at  the  hea<* 
of  his  Poems  Subjective  and  Reminiscent.   He  had  nevei 
before  publicly  acknowledged  how  much  of  his  heart 
was  wrapped  up  in  this  delightful  play  of  poetic  fancy. 
The  poem  was  written  in  1841,  and  although  the  ro- 
mance it  embalms  lies  far  back  of  this  date,  possibly 
there  is  a  heart  still  beating  which  fully  understands 
its  meaning.    The  biographer  can  do  no  more  than 
make  this  suggestion,  which  has  the  sanction  of  the 
poet's  explicit  word.    To  a  friend  who  toH  him  that 
Memories  was  her  favorite  poem,  he  said,  'I  love  it 
too;  but  I  hardly  knew  whether  to  publish  it,  it  was 
so  personal  and  near  my  heart.'    (Packard's  Life  oj 
WMttifr,  vol.  i,  p.  276.) 

See  also  Pickard's  Whittier-Land,  pp.  66-67,  and  the 
poem  'My Playmate.' 

2  Whittier  was  especially  fond  of  these  two  opening 
stanzas.    He  had  already  used  the  lines  to  describe  an 
ideal  character  in  '  Moll  Pitcher,'  published  in  1832,  but 
not  now  included  in  his  collected  works. 


266 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 
Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise  30 

The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah  !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than 
they! 

Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 

My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 
When,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled,  40 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee; 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The  lights  of  memory  backward  stream, 
Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 

Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 

fears  have  passed  on,  and  left  their  trace, 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought.     50 
More   wide,   perchance,    for    blame    than 
praise, 

The  school-boy's  humble  name  has  flown; 
Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 

Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge  our  pathways,  one  in  youth; 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 
For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer,       60 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm; 
For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours,  7o 

Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 


Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us  lies 
The  warm  light  of  our  morning  skies,  — 

The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart ! 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find      80 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain  ! 
1841.  1843. 

HAMPTON   BEACH 

THE  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of 
sandy  gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea  ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for 
miles  around.  10 

On  —  on  —  we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 

Our  seaward  way, 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossom- 
ing grain, 

Where  the  wild  brbr-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering 
locust  spray. 

Ha  !  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a  new  life,  the  healing  of  the 


Now  rest  we,  whe^e  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds 
with  cool  spray  wet. 

Good-by  to  Pain  and  Care  !  I  take 

Mine  ease  torday: 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All    burdens   from    the    heart,   all   weary 
thoughts  away.  30 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


267 


I  draw  a  freer  breath,  I  seem 

Like  all  I  see  — 

Waves  in  the  sun,  the  white-winged  gleam 
Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam, 
And   far-off    sails   which    flit    before    the 
southwind  free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the 
vastness  grow.  40 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 

No  new  revealing; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the  new 
life  stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light. 

May  have  its  dawning ; 
And,  as  in  summer's  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the 
soul's  new  morning.  50 

I  sit  alone ;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 

Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and  gray, 
Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 
Or  murmurs  hoarse   and   strong  through 
mossy  cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town  ? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To   where   the   blue  of    heaven    on  bluer 
waves  shuts  down  !  60 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind; 
And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them 
rise  and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer  !  wave  and  shore 

In  shadow  lie ; 

The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
•Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing  sun- 
set sky.  70 


So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell ! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by 
the  Sea. 

1843. 

CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK1 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  bless- 
ing rise  to-day, 

From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath 
plucked  the  spoil  away; 

Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the 
faithful  three, 

And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set 
his  handmaid  free! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through 

my  prison  bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell 

the  pale  gleam  of  stars; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through 

the  long  night-time. 
My  grated    casement   whitened    with   au~ 

tumu's  early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour 

crept  by; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank 

adown  the  sky;  i0 

No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that 

which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses 

of  the  sea; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  foK  I  knew  that 
on  the  morrow 

The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock 
me  in  my  sorrow, 

Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bar- 
gained for  and  sold, 

Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a 
heifer  from  the  fold  ! 


1  In  1G58  two  young  persons,  son  and  daughter  of 
Lawrence  Southwick  of  Salem,  who  had  himself  been 
imprisoned  and  deprived  of  nearly  all  his  property  for 
having  entertained  Quakers  at  his  house,  were  fined 
for  non-attendance  at  church.  They  being  unable  to  pay 
the  fine,  the  General  Court  issued  an  order  empowering 
'  The  Treasurer  of  the  County  to  sell  the  said  persons 
to  any  of  the  English  nation  of  Virginia  or  Barbadoes, 
to  answer  said  fines.'  An  attempt  was  made  to  carry 
this  order  into  execution,  but  no  shipmaster  was  found 
willing  to  convey  them  to  the  West  Indies.  (WHITTIEB.,/ 


268 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Oh,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there,  — 

the  shrinking  and  the  shame; 
And   the   low  voice  of   the  Tempter   like 

whispers  to  me  came: 
1  Why    sit'st    thou     thus     forlornly,'    the 

wicked  murmur  said, 
Damp  walls   thy   bower  of    beauty,  cold 

earth  thy  maiden  bed  ?  20 

'  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices 

soft  and  sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the 

pleasant  street  ? 
Where   be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the 

summer  Sabbath  through, 
Turned    tenderly    and    timidly    unto    thy 

father's  pew  ? 

'Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra ?  — Be- 
think thee  with  what  mirth 

The  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the 
warm,  bright  hearth; 

How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  fore- 
heads white  and  fair, 

On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in 
golden  hair. 

'  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens, 
not  for  thee  kind  words  are  spoken, 

Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods 
by  laughing  boys  are  broken;  3o 

No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy 
lap  are  laid, 

For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youth- 
ful hunters  braid. 

'  0  weak,  deluded  maiden  !  —  by  crazy 
fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path 
to  tread; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teach- 
ing pure  and  sound, 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose- 
haired  and  sackcloth  bound,  — 

1  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock 
at  things  divine, 

Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread 
and  wine; 

Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and 
from  the  pillory  lame, 

Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glory- 
ing in  their  shame.  40 

'  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  !  —  a  sadly 
toiling  slave, 


Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of 

bondage  to  the  grave  ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in 

hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn 

of  all !  ' 

Oh,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble 

Nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of 

unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled    down  the    evil   thoughts,  and 

strove  in  silent  prayer, 
To  feel,  O  Helper  of  the  weak  !  that  Thou 

indeed  wert  there  ! 

I  thought  of   Paul  and  Silas,  within  Phi- 

lippi's  cell, 
And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the 

prison  shackles  fell,  5o 

Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of    an 

angel's  robe  of  white, 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to 

sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies  !  —  for 

the  peace  and  love  I  felt, 
Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my 

spirit  melt  ; 
When  '  Get  behind   me,  Satan  ! '  was  the 

language  of  my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his 

doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning;  again 
the  sunshine  fell, 

Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate 
within  my  lonely  cell; 

The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  up- 
ward from  the  street 

Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and 
tread  of  passing  feet.  60 

At  length  the   heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my 

door  was  open  cast, 
And    slowly  at    the  sheriff's  side,  up   the 

long  street  I  passed; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt, 

but  dared  not  see, 
How,  from   every   door  and   window,  the 

people  gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame 
burned  upon  my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trem- 
bling limbs  grew  weak: 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


269 


'O  Lord  !  support  thy  handmaid;  and  from 

her  soul  cast  out 
The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare,  the 

weakness  and  the  doubt.' 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like  a 

cloud  in  morning's  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed 

whispering  words  like  these:  70 

'  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy 

heaven  a  brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  his  loving-kindness  whose  power 

is  ovej  all.' 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the 

sunlit  waters  broke 
On  glaring   reach   of   shining   beach,   and 

shingly  wall  of  rock; 
7he  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard 

clear  lines  on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their 

network  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak- 
wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 

And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces 
bronzed  and  old, 

And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel 
clerk  at  hand,  • 

Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler 
of  the  land.  go 

And  poisoning  with    his   evil    words  the 

ruler's  ready  ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh 

and  scoff  and  jeer; 
It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the 

seal  of  silence  broke, 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning 

spirit  spoke. 

I  cried,  '  The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter 

of  the  meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler 

of  the  weak  I 
Go  light   the   dark,  cold  hearth-stones, — 

go  turn  the  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou 

wolf  amid  the  flock  ! ' 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and 

with  a  deeper  red 
O'er  Rawson's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the 

flush  of  anger  spread;  9o 


'  Good  people,'  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest, 
'  heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 

Her  Master  speaks  within  her,  —  the  Devil 
owns  his  child  ! ' 


But  gray   heads  shook,  and  young  brows 

knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor 

have  made, 
Who  to   their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol 

priesthood  bring 
No  bended  knee  of   worship,  nor  gainful 

offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff, 
turning,  said,  — 

'  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this 
Quaker  maid  ? 

In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Vir- 
ginia's shore, 

You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than 
Indian  girl  or  Moor.'  too 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains; and  when 

again  he  cried, 
'  Speak  out,   my  worthy   seamen  ! '  —  no 

voice,  no  sign  replied; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and 

kind  words  met  my  ear,  — 
'  God  bless  thee,  and   preserve   thee,  my 

gentle  girl  and  dear  !  ' 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  a 

pitying  friend  was  nigh,  — 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it 

in  his  eye; 
And  when  again   the  sheriff   spoke,   that 

voice,  so  kind  to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the 

roaring  of  the  sea,  — 

'  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver,  pack  with 
coins  of  Spanish  gold,  ' 

From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  room- 
age  of  her  hold,  IIO 

By  the  living  God  who  made  me  !  —  I 
would  sooner  in  your  bay 

Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear 
this  child  away  1 ' 

'  Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on 

their  cruel  laws  !  ' 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud 

the  people's  just  applause. 


27C 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


'  Like  the  herdsmen  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of 

old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again 

for  silver  sold  ?  ' 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott;  with  weapon 

half-way  drawn, 
Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of 

bitter  hate  and  scorn; 
Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned 

in  silence  back, 
And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode 

murmuring  in  his  track.  120 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bit- 
terness of  soul; 

Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and 
crushed  his  parchment  roll. 

'  Good  friends,'  he  said,  '  since  both  have 
fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest, 

Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be 
not  well  released.' 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear, 
swept  round  the  silent  bay, 

As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he 
bade  me  go  my  way; 

For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  stream- 
let of  the  glen, 

And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned 
the  hearts  of  men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed 
changed  beneath  my  eye, 

A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue 
walls  of  the  sky,  130 

A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill  and  stream 
and  woodland  lay, 

And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  wa- 
ters of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  !  to  Him 

all  praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set 

his  handmaid  free; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the 

mighty  are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare  which 

for  the  poor  is  laid  ! 

Sing,  O  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's 

twilight  calm 
Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving,  pour  forth 

the  grateful  psalm; 


Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  diet 

the  saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued 

Peter  told.  140 

And  weep  and   howl,  ye  evil  priests  and 

mighty  men  of  wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite   the  proud,  and  lay 

His  hand  upon  the  strong. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  his  avenging 

hour  ! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to 

raven  and  devour  ! 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  the  poor  in 

heart  be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes 

of  praise  be  clad. 
For    He    who    cooled    the    furnace,   and 

smoothed  the  stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty 

still  to  save  ! 

1843. 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA' 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills, 
upon  its  Southern  way. 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachu- 
setts Bay: 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle 
bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor 
clang  of  horsemen's  steel, 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along 

our  highways  go; 
Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies 

the  snow; 

1  Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings 
of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in  reference  to  George 
Latimer,  the  alleged  fugitive  slave,  who  was  seized  in 
Boston  without  warrant  at  the  request  of  James  B. 
Grey,  of  Norfolk,  claiming  to  be  his  master.  The  case 
caused  great  excitement  North  and  South,  and  led  to 
the  presentation  of  a  petition  to  Congress,  signed  by 
more  than  fifty  thousand  citizens  of  Massachusetts, 
calling  for  such  laws  and  proposed  amendments  to  the 
Constitution  as  should  relieve  the  Commonwealth  from 
all  further  participation  in  the  crime  of  oppression. 
George  Latimer  himself  was  finally  given  free  papers 
for  the  sum  of  four  hundred  dollars.  (WHrrrnm.) 

When  the  excitement  was  at  its  height,  conventions 
were  held  simultaneously  in  every  county  in  Massachu- 
setts, and  this  poem  was  read  at  the  Essex  County  con- 
vention. The  most  intense  enthusiasm  was  aroused  by 
those  stanzas  in  which  all  the  counties  of  the  State 
speak  successively,  each  ;'a  its  own  character. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


271 


And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon 

their  errands  far, 
A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but 

none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia  !  thy  stormy 

words  and  high 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which 

melt  along  our  sky ;  10 

Yet  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its 

honest  labor  here, 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends 

his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs 
along  St.  George's  bank; 

Cold  on  the  shores  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies 
white  and  dank; 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding 
mist,  stout  are  the  hearts  which 
man 

The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea- 
boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare 

on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er   their   straining  lines  or 

wrestling  with  the  storms; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough 

as  the  waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh   to  scorn   the   slaver's   threat 

against  their  rocky  home.  20 

What  means   the  Old   Dominion  ?     Hath 

she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  coi  _ 

Briton's  steel  array  ? 
How,  side  by  side  with  sons  of  hers,  the 

Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and 

stout  Cornwallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer 

to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out 

from  Faneuil  Hall  ? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came 

pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds  the  thrilling  sounds  of 

'  Liberty  or  Death  ! ' 

What   asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?     If   now 

her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  false  to  the 

faith  they  loved;  3o 


If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great 

charter  spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  trut*  and 

duty  turn  ? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Sla- 
very's hateful  hell; 

Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the 
bloodhound's  yell; 

We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our 
fathers'  graves, 

From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear 
your  wretched  slaves  ! 

Thank  God  !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massa- 
chusetts bow; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even 
now; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves 
slow  and  calm  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sis- 
ter's slave  and  tool !  40 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a 
free  State  may, 

Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our 
early  day; 

But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye 
must  stagger  with  alone, 

And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  your- 
selves have  sown  ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves, 

and  burden  God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and 

manhood's  wild  despair; 
Cling  closer  to  the  '  cleaving   curse '  that 

writes  upon  your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a 

land  of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cava- 
liers of  old, 

By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  hu- 
man flesh  is  sold;  50 

Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count 
his  market  value,  when 

The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall 
pierce  the  slaver's  den  ! 

Lower  than  plummet   soundeth,   sink   the 

Virginia  name; 
Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  witt 

rankest  weeds  of  shame; 


272 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  uni- 
verse ; 

We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin  and 
shame  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from 
Freedom's  shrine  hath  been, 

Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of 
Berkshire's  mountain  men: 

The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly 
lingering  still 

In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind- 
swept hill.  60 

And   when   the  prowling  man-thief   came 

hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft 

of  gray, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the 

father's  warning  spoke ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the 

Pilgrim  city  broke  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted 

up  on  high, 
A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their 

loud  reply; 
Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the 

startling  summons  rang, 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel 

her  young  mechanics  sprang  ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex,  of  thou- 
sands as  of  one, 

The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lex- 
ington; 7o 

From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages,  from  Ply- 
mouth's rocky  bound 

To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean 
close  her  round; 

From  rich  and    rural  Worcester,   where 

through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the 

gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To   where   Wachuset's   wintry   blasts   the 

mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of 

'  God  save  Latimer  ! ' 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the 

salt  sea  spray; 
And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  clown 

Narragansett  Bay  ! 


Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden 

felt  the  thrill, 
And   the   cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen 

swept  down  from  Holyoke  Hill.     80 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  !  Of  her  free 
sons  and  daughters, 

Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud,  the  sound  of 
many  waters ! 

Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  ty- 
rant power  shall  stand  ? 

No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State  !  No  slave 
upon  her  land ! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !   In  calmness  we 

have  borne, 
In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult 

and  your  scorn; 
You  've    spurned     our    kindest    counsels; 

you  've  hunted  for  our  lives; 
And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes 

your  manacles  and  gyves  ! 

We  wage  no  war,  we  lift  no  arm,  we  fling 

no  torch  within 

I   The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath 

your  soil  of  sin;  90 

I  We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle, 

while  ye  can, 
With   the   strong  upward   tendencies   and 
godlike  soul  of  man  ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow 

which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered  in 

heaven; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders,  —  no  pirate 

on  our  strand  ! 
No  fetters   in  the  Bay  State,  —  no  slave 

upon  our  land  ! 
December,  1842.  January,  1843. 

THE   CHRISTIAN   SLAVE1 

A  CHRISTIAN  !  going,  gone  ! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image?  for  his 

grace, 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 

Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 
1  In  a  publication  of  L.  F.  Tasistro,  Random  Shott 
and  Southern  Breezes,  is  a  description  of  a  slave 
tion  at  New  Orleans,  at  which  the  auctioneer  recom- 
mended the  woman  on  the  stand  as  'A  GOOD  CHRISTIAN  ! ' 
It  was  not  uncommon  to  see  advertisements  of  slave* 
for  sale,  in  which  they  were  described  as  pious  or  as 
members  of  the  church.  In  one  advertisement  a  slave 
was  noted  as  '  a  Baptist  preacher.'  (WHTTTEBR.) 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


273 


My  God  !  can  such  things  be  ? 
Hast  Thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest  one 

Is  even  done  to  Thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child    of    thy   pitying    love,   I    see   Thee 
stand ;  10 

Once   more   the  jest-word   of   a   mocking 

band, 
Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  ! 

A  Christian  up  for  sale  ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,  o'ertask 

her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong 

and  shame, 
Her  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of 

years 
But  her  low,  broken   prayer  and  nightly 

tears 
Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel.  20 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher,  tell  the  toiling  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to 
save 

The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's   free   Gospel   from    her   simple 

heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command,  Obey  ! 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price   of  human   flesh;1  and 
while  3o 

On  thee,  their  pampered  guest,  the  planters 

smile, 
Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was 
blest, 

1  There  was  at  the  time  when  this  poem  was  written 
an  Association  in  Liberty  County,  Georgia,  for  the 
religious  instruction  of  negroes.  One  of  their  annual 
reports  contains  an  address  by  the  Rev.  Josiah  Spry 
Law,  in  which  the  following  passage  occurs :  '  There  is  a 
growing  interest  in  this  community  in  the  religious  in- 
struction of  negroes.  There  is  a  conviction  that  religious 
instruction  promotes  the  quiet  and  order  of  the  people, 
»nd  the  pecuniary  interest  of  the  owners.'  (WHITTIBB.) 


While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom  first  and 

best, 
Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

Oh,  shame  !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,    with   his    master,   to    the    Prophet 

kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall.  4o 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons   open,  and  hath 
borne 

Their  inmates  into  day: 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching 

eyes; 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall     priestly     robbers    at     thine     altar 
stand,  5o 

Lifting  in  prayer  to  Thee  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 

Oh,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the  trader's 

cell; 

From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and  loath- 
some hell, 
And  coffle's  weary  chain; 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

How  long,  O  God,  how  long  ?  60 

1843.  1843. 


THE   SHOEMAKERS1 

Ho  !  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 
The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather  ! 


1  In  his  Songs  of  Labor,  though  Whittier  wrote  with 
most  sympathy  of  the  two  trades  at  which  he  had 
himself  worked,  shoemaking  (cf.  Carpenter's  WhiUier, 
pp.  39^11)  and  farming  (see  "The  Huskers,'  p.  278), 
there  are  lines  in  others  of  the  Songs  which  cannot  be 
spared  from  any  selection  of  his  poetry.  Such  are  these 
from  '  The  Lumbermen  : '  — 

Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys. 

Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain  ; 
Give  to  us  the  cedarn  valleys, 

Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine  ! 


274 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 
Stand  forth  once  more  together  ! 

Call  out  again  your  long  array, 
In  the  olden  merry  manner  ! 

Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 
Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner  ! 

Rap,  rap  !  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer  !  to 

Rap,  rap  !  the  measured  sound  has  grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole  !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it  ! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing  , 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing  ;  10 

For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting  ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing  ; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling  ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges  ;  30 

For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together  ; 
Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster.  40 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride, 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner  ; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride, 


i»  the  beginning  of  '  The  Drovers  :  '  — 

Through  heat  and  cold,  and  shower  and  su 


See  also  the  beautiful '  Dedication '  of  the  Songs  of 
Labor,  p.  282. 


And  duty  done  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Hans  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German;  jc 

And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gilford's  wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours  ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 
On  earthern  floor,  in  marble  halls 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather.  6c 

Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials  ! 

Rap,   rap  !  —  your   stout   and    bluff    bro- 
gan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains,  jc. 

Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains  ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The    shoe    in    yours    shall   wealth    com- 
mand, 

Xike  fairy  Cinderella's ! 
As     they    who    shunned     the     household 
maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor.          80 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming,  — 
'  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women  ! ' 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner: 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner  ! 

1845. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


275 


THE    PINE   TREE1 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay 

State's  rusted  shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on 

our  banner's  tattered  field. 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their 

Bibles  round  the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a 

firm,  '  Thus  saith  the  Lord  ! ' 
Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom  !  set  the 

battle  in  array  ! 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their 

sons  must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs,  cease  your 

paltry  pedler  cries; 
Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that 

your  gambling  stocks  may  rise  ? 
Would  ye  barter  man   for  cotton?    That 

your  gains  may  sum  up  higher, 
Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our 

children  through  the  fire  ? 
Is  the  dollar  only  real  ?  God  and  truth  and 

right  a  dream  ? 
Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must 

our  manhood  kick  the  beam  ? 

O  my  God  !  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of 

old  in  Boston  town 
Smote   the    Province   House   with   terror, 

struck  the  crest  of  Andros  down  ! 
For   another   strong-voiced  Adams  in  the 

city's  streets  to  cry, 
•  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts  !   Set  your 

feet  on  Mammon's  lie  ! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic,  spin  your 

cotton's  latest  pound, 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor,  keep 

the  heart  o'  the  Bay  State  sound  ! ' 

Where  's    the    man    for    Massachusetts  ? 

Where  's  the  voice  to  speak  her  free  ? 
Where  's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from 

her  mountains  to  the  sea  ? 

1  Written  on  hearing  that  the  Anti-Slavery  Resolves 
of  Stephen  C.  Phillips  had  been  rejected  by  the  Whig 
Convention  in  Faneuil  Hall,  in  1846.  (WHITTIER.) 

Whittier  sent  the  poem  to  Sumner  in  a  letter  in  which 
he  said  :  '  I  have  just  read  the  proceedings  of  your  Whig 
convention,  and  the  lines  enclosed  are  a  feeble  expres- 
sion of  my  feelings.  I  look  upon  the  rejection  of  Stephen 
C.  Phillips's  resolutions  as  an  evidence  that  the  end  and 
aim  of  the  managers  of  the  convention  was  to  go  just 
far  enough  to  scare  the  party  and  no  farther.  All  thanks 
for  the  free  voices  of  thyself,  Phillips,  Allen,  and  Adams. 
Notwithstanding  the  result  you  have  not  spoken  in 
»ain.'  (Quoted  in  Pickard's  Life,  vol.  i,  p.  316.) 


Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer  ?   Sits 

she  dumb  in  her  despair  ? 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ?   Has 

she  none  to  do  and  dare  ? 
O  my  God  !  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up 

her  rusted  shield, 
And   to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her 

banner's  tattered  Held  ! 
1846.  1846. 


FORGIVENESS 

MY  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had  been 
Abused,  its   kindness  answered   with  foul 

wrong; 

So,  turning  gloomily  from  my  fellow-men, 
One  summer  Sabbath  day  I  strolled  among 
The  green  mounds   of   the  village  burial- 
place  ; 
Where,  pondering  how  all  human  love  and 

hate 

Find  one  sad  level ;  and  how,  soon  or  late, 
Wronged  and  wrongdoer,  each  with  rneek- 

ened  face, 

And  cold  hands  folded  over  a  still  heart, 
Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  common 

grave, 
Whither  all   footsteps  tend,  whence  none 

depart, 

Awed  for  myself,  and  pitying  my  race, 
Our  common  sorrow,  like  a  mighty  wave, 
Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trembling  I 

forgave  ! 
1846?  (1849.) 


BARCLAY   OF   URY 2 

UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 
Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury^ 

2  Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the  doctrines  of 
Friends  in  Scotland  was  Barclay  of  Ury,  an  old  and  dis- 
tinguished soldier,  who  had  fought  under  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  in  Germany.  As  a  Quaker,  he  became  the 
object  of  persecution  and  abuse  at  the  hands  of  the 
magistrates  and  the  populace.  None  bore  the  indigni- 
ties of  the  mob  with  greater  patience  and  nobleness  of 
soul  than  this  once  proud  gentleman  and  soldier.  One 
of  his  friends,  on  an  occasion  of  uncommon  rudeness, 
lamented  that  he  should  be  treated  so  harshly  in  his 
old  age  who  had  been  so  honored  before.  '  I  find  more 
satisfaction,'  said  Barclay,  '  as  well  as  honor,  in  being 
thus  insulted  for  my  religious  principles,  than  when, 
a  few  years  ago,  it  was  usual  for  the  magistrates,  as 
I  passed  the  city  of  Aberdeen,  to  meet  me  on  the 
road  and  conduct  me  to  public  entertainment  in  their 
hall,  and  then  escort  me  out  again,  to  gain  my  favor.' 
(WHITTISB.) 


276 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 
Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late  i 

Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien. 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding; 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop  with  broadswords  swinging, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing,  a 

Loose  and  free  and  f reward; 
Quoth  the  foremost,  '  Ride  him  down  ! 
Push  him  !  prick  him  !  through  the  town 

Drive  the  Quaker  coward  ! ' 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud: 

'  Barclay  !    Ho  !  a  Barclay  ! ' 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly,          3 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud :  '  God  save  us, 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Liitzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ? ' 

'  Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,'  said  Ury's  lord 

'  Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee: 
Passive  to  his  holy  will,  4 

Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  He  slay  me. 

'  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed.' 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

'  Woe  's  the  day  ! '  he  sadly  said, 

With  a  slowly  shaking  head,  j 


And  a  look  of  pity; 
'  Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city  ! 

'  Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 1 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting  through  their  midst  we  '11  teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers  ! '  60 

'  Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end,' 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury; 
'  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 

Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry  ? 

'  Give  me  joy  that  in  his  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long,         70 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer  ? 

'  Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me. 

'  When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door;  80 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

'  Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving; 
But  the  Lord  his  own  rewards, 
And  his  love  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living.  pc 

'  Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking; 

1  The  barbarities  of  Count  De  Tilly  after  the  siege  of 
Magdeburg  made  such  an  impression  upon  our  fore- 
fathers that  the  phrase  '  like  old  Tilly '  is  still  heard 
sometimes  in  New  England  of  any  piece  of  special  fero- 
city. (WHITTIBB.) 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


277 


Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking  ! ' 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  gates,  he  heard    100 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen  ! 

Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial; 
Every  age  on  'iim  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways 

Pours  its  seven-fold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 

Angel  comfortings  can  hear,  no 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter; 
And  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow.  120 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow; 
Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  ! 

1847. 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA* 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking 

northward  far  away, 
O'er   the  camp  of   the   invaders,  o'er  the 

Mexican  array, 

1  A  letter-writer  from  Mexico  during  the  Mexican 
War,  when  detailing  some  of  the  incidents  at  the  terri- 
ble fight  of  Buena  Vista,  mentioned  that  Mexican  wo- 
men were  seen  hovering  near  the  field  of  death,  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  aid  and  succor  to  the  wounded.  One 
poor  woman  was  found  surrounded  by  the  maimed  and 
suffering  of  both  armies,  ministering  to  the  wants  of 
Americans  as  well  as  Mexicans  with  impartial  tender- 
ness. (WHITTIER.) 


Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  are  they 

far  or  come  they  near  ? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither 

rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

'  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm 

of  battle  rolls; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;  God  have 

mercy  on  their  souls  ! ' 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?     '  Over 

hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through 

the  mountain  rain.' 

Holy  Mother  !  keep  our  brothers  !  Look, 
Ximena,  look  once  more. 

'Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling 
darkly  as  before,  10 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and 
f oeman,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweep- 
ing down  its  mountain  course.' 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  '  Ah  !  the 

smoke  has  rolled  away; 
And  I  see   the   Northern   rifles  gleaming 

down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark  !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles  !  there 

the  troop  of  Minon  wheels; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with 

the  cannon  at  their  heels. 

'  Jesu,  pity  !  how  it  thickens  !  now  retreat 

and  now  advance  ! 
Right  against  the    blazing  cannon  shivers 

Puebla's  charging  lance  ! 
Down   they  go,  the   brave    young   riders; 

horse  and  foot  together  fall; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through 

them  ploughs  the  Northern  ball.'  20 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling 

fast  and  frightful  on  ! 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has 

lost,  and  who  has  won  ? 
'  Alas !  alas  !  I  know  not;  friend  and  foe 

.  together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living:  pray,  my 

sisters,  for  them  all  ! 

*  Lo !    the    wind    the     smoke    is    lifting. 

Blessed  Mother,  save  my  brain  ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out 

from  heaps  of  slain. 


278 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding;  now 
they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise; 

Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest 
they  die  before  our  eyes  ! 

« O  my  heart's  love  !  0  my  dear  one  !  lay 
thy  poor  head  on  my  knee; 

Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ? 
Canst  thou  hear  me  ?  canst  thou 
see  ?  30 

0  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !  O  my 
Bernal,  look  once  more 

On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  Mercy  ! 
mercy  !  all  is  o'er  !  ' 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Xirnena;  lay  thy 

dear  one  down  to  rest; 
Let  his  hands  be   meekly  folded,  lay  the 

cross  upon  his  breast; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung   hereafter,  and  his 

funeral  masses  said; 
To-day,  thovi  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living 

ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and 

young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with   lances, 

bleeding  slow  his  life  away; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena 

knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his 

pistol-belt.  4o 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she 

turned  away  her  head; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she 

back  upon  her  dead; 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and 

his  struggling  breath  of  pain, 
And  she   raised   the   cooling  water  to  his 

parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed 

her  hand  and  faintly  smiled; 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's?  did 

she  watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her 

woman's  heart  supplied; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead, '  Mother! ' 

murmured  he,  and  died  ! 

c  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who 
led  thee  forth, 

From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weep- 
ing, lonely,  in  the  North  !  '  50 


Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she 

laid  him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind 

the  wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Xiinena  !  '  Like  a 
cloud  before  the  wind 

Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains, 
leaving  blood  and  death  be- 
hind; 

Ah  !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy;  in  the 
dust  the  wounded  strive; 

Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels !  O  thou 
Christ  of  God,  forgive  !  ' 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains  !  let 

the  cool,  gray  shadows  fall; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy 

curtain  over  all ! 
Through   the   thickening   winter   twilight, 

wide  apart  the  battle  rolled, 
In  the  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  can. 

lion's  lips  grew  cold.  60 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy 
task  pursued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sor- 
row, worn  and  faint  and  lacking 
food. 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a 
tender  care  they  hung, 

And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a 
strange  and  Northern  tongue. 

Not   wholly   lost,  O  Father!    is   this   evil 

world  of  ours ; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring 

afresh  the  Eden  flowers; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and 

Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover 

dimly  in  our  air  ! 

1847 


THE   HUSKERS 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long 

aiitumnal  rain 
Had   left   the    summer    harvest-fields   all 

green  with  grass  again  ; 
The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all 

the  woodlands  gay 
With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the 

meadow-flowers  of  May. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


279 


Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the 

sun  rose  broad  and  red, 
At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened 

as  he  sped  ; 
Yet  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened 

and  subdued, 
On  the  cornfields   and   the    orchards   and 

softly  pictured  wood. 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping 

to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with 

yellow  light ;  10 

Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he 

glorified  the  hill  ; 
And,   beneath   it,   pond   and   meadow   lay 

brighter,  greener  still. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts 
caught  glimpses  of  that  sky, 

Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and 
laughed,  they  knew  not  why  ; 

And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers, 
beside  the  meadow  brooks, 

Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sun- 
shine of  sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn  looked  westerly  the 
patient  weathercocks  ; 

But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  mo- 
tionless as  rocks. 

No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the 
squirrel's  dropping  shell, 

And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs, 
low  rustling  as  they  fell.  20 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested  ;  the 

stubble-fields  lay  dry, 
Where   June   winds   rolled,   in   light   and 

shade,    the    pale    green   waves    of 

rye; 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,   in  valleys 

fringed  with  wood, 
Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy 

corn  crop  stood. 

Bent    low,   by   autumn's    wind   and   rain, 

through  husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone 

out  the  yellow  ear  ; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many 

a  verdant  fold, 
And   glistened   in   the   slanting   light   the 

pumpkin's  sphere  of  gold. 


There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters  ;  and 

many  a  creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load 

of  husk  and  grain  ;  30 

Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the 

sun  sank  down,  at  last, 
And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day 

in  brightness  passed. 

And  lo  !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on 

meadow,  stream,  and  pond, 
Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  al? 

afire  beyond, 
Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  mildei' 

glory  shone, 
And   the   sunset   and   the   moonrise   were 

mingled  into  one  ! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight 

lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening,  moon  the 

tranquil  shadows  lay; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and 

hamlet  without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done, 

the  merry  buskers  came.  4o 

Swung   o'er   the  heaped-up  harvest,  from 

pitchforks  in  the  mow, 
Shone   dimly   down    the   lanterns    on    the 

pleasant  scene  below; 
The    growing    pile   of  husks   behind,   the 

golden  ears  before, 
And      laughing     eyes     and     busy    hands 

and      brown      cheeks      glimmering 


Half  hidden,  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look 

and  heart, 
Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men 

sat  apart  ; 
While  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or 

nestling  in  its  shade, 
At  hide-and-seek,    with   laugh  and  shout, 

the  happy  children  played. 

Urged   by   the    good    host's    daughter,   a 

maiden  young  and  fair, 
Lifting   to  light   her  sweet  blue  eyes  and 

pride  of  soft  brown  hair,  50 

The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of 

hair  and  smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a 

husking-ballad  sung. 


280 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


THE  CORN  SONG 
Heap  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard  ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn  ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn  ! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine  ;  60 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of  flowers 
Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 

While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 
Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain 
Beneath  the  sun  of  May,  70 

And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 
The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June 
Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 

And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  iair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home.  80 

There,  when  the  snows  about  us  drift, 

And  winter  winds  are  cold, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 

Around  their  costly  board; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 

By  homespun  beauty  poured  ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 
Sends  up  its  smoky  curls,  90 

Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 
And  bless  'our  farmer  girls  ! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn  ! 


Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 
Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 

Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 
The  wheat-field  to  the  fly  :  „ 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 
The  hills  our  fathers  trod  ; 

Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 
Send  up  our  thanks  to  God  ! 


1847. 


PROEM i 

I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 
Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest 
morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try; 
I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 
In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad,  still  lips  the  blessing 
of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 
Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march   through  storm 
and  strife,  are  here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 
Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed 
eyes.  20 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind; 
To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 
Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to 
find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown; 

1  The  first  important  collected  edition  of  Whittier'e 
poems  was  a  large  and  beautiful  volume  published  in 
1848  (dated  1840).  This  '  Proem'  was  written  to  intro- 
duce it. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


281 


A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 
And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were 
my  own.  30 

O  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 
Xor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 
Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on 

thy  shrine  ! 
1847.  1848. 


THE   LAKESIDE 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lessening  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the  Hills  !  where,  cool  and  sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie  !  * 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay,  10 

Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 

So  seemed  it  when  yon  hill's  red  crown,2 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through  the  sunset  air,  looked  down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God.8  20 

To  him  of  light.and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  skeptic  taught; 

1  The  'Like  of  the  Hills'  is  Lake  Winnipeeaukee. 
One  of  Whittier's  favorite  resorts  was  West  Ossipee, 
at  the  foot  of  the  Ossipee  Mountains,  just  northeast  of 
the  lake.  See  Pickard's  Whittier-Land,  pp.  109-115; 
his  Life  of  Wfiitlier,  vol.  ii,  p.  6G9 ;  and  Whittier's 
1  Among  the  Hills '  and  '  Summer  by  the  Lakeside.' 

1  Mt.  Chocorua,  north  of  West  Ossipee,  the  most 
picturesque,  though  by  no  means  the  highest,  of  the 
mountains  of  New  England.  Its  cone  is  formed  of  a 
peculiar  reddish  stone  known  as  '  Chocorua  granite.' 
For  the  legend  of  the  Indian  chief  from  whom  it  was 
named,  see  Thomas  Starr  King's  The  White  Hills,  or 
Sweetser's  White  Mountains,  p.  341.  See  also  Whit- 
tier's  'How  They  Climbed  Chocorua'  in  Whittier-Land, 
pp.  111-114.  One  of  Longfellow's  early  poems,  'Jec- 
koj-Ta,'  had  the  Indian  chief  Chocorua  for  its  hero. 

3  The  name  Winnipesaukee  is  popularly  thought  to 
mean  '  The  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit.'  Students  of  the 
Indian  languages,  however,  agree  that  its  real  meaning 
U  '  Beautiful  Water  in  a  High  Place.' 


Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 
His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines  ; 
This  lake,  in  summer  sunset  bright, 

Walled  round  with  sombering  pines. 
God  near  him  seemed ;  from  earth  and  skies 

His  loving  voice  he  heard,  3o 

As,  face  to  face,  in  Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the  Lord. 

Thanks,  O  our  Father  !  that,  like  him,      • 

Thy  tender  love  I  see, 
In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 

And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  Thou  fill 

Our  earth  with  light  and  grace; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind  Thy  smiling  face  !  40 

1849. 


OUR  STATE i 

THE  South-laud  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 

Rough,  bleak,  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone  ! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  whiter  woods  complain; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 
Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health; 
And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 
The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause  ! 
»  Originally  called  '  Dedication  of  a  School-houae.' 


282 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Nor  heeds  the  skeptic's  puny  hands, 
While    near   her   school   tlie   church-spire 

stands ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 
While   near   her   church-spire   stands   the 

school. 

1849. 

ICHABOD i 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore  ! 

Revile  him  not,  the  Tempter  hath 
A  snare  for  all ; 

1  This  poem  was  the  outcome  of  the  surprise  and 
grief  and  forecast  of  evil  consequences  which  I  felt  on 
reading  the  Seventh  of  March  speech  of  Daniel  Webster 
in  support  of  the  '  Compromise,'  and  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law.  No  partisan  or  personal  enmity  dictated  it.  On 
the  contrary  my  admiration  of  the  splendid  personality 
and  intellectual  power  of  the  great  senator  was  never 
stronger  than  when  I  laid  down  his  speech,  and,  in  one 
of  the  saddest  moments  of  my  life,  penned  my  pro- 
test. ... 

But  death  softens  all  resentments,  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  a  common  inheritance  of  frailty  and  weakness 
modifies  the  severity  of  judgment.  Years  after,  in 
'  The  Lost  Occasion,'  I  gave  utterance  to  an  almost 
universal  regret  that  the  great  statesman  did  not  live 
to  see  the  flag  which  he  loved  trampled  under  the  feet 
of  Slavery,  and,  in  view  of  this  desecration,  make  his 
last  days  glorious  in  defence  of  '  Liberty  and  Union, 
one  and  inseparable.'  (WHITTIER.) 

'  Ichabod '  and  '  The  Lost  Occasion  '  (p.  348)  should 
necessarily  be  read  together.  The  best  possible  com- 
ment on  the  two  poems,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
to-day,  is  that  of  Professor  Carpenter :  '  Those  whom 
Whittier  knew  best  in  later  life  relate  that  he  came 
eventually  to  feel  that  Webster  was  perhaps  right  and 
he  wrong;  that  compromise  meant  weary  years  of 
waiting,  but  that  the  further  and  consistent  pursuit  of 
such  a  policy  might  have  successfully  avoided  the  evils 
of  war  and  of  reconstruction.  However  that  may  be, 
the  verses  [of  '  Ichabod ']  are,  in  their  awful  scorn,  the 
most  powerful  that  he  ever  wrote.  Right  or  wrong,  he 
spoke  for  a  great  part  of  the  North  and  West,  nay,  for 
the  world.  For  the  poem,  in  much  the  same  fashion  as 
Browning's  '  Lost  Leader,'  is  becoming  disassociated 
with  any  special  name,  and  may  thus  remain  a  most 
remarkable  expression  —  the  most  terrible  in  our  litera- 
ture—  of  the  aversion  which  any  mass  of  people  may 
feel,  especially  in  a  democracy,  for  the  once-worshipped 
leader  whose  acts  and  words,  in  matters  of  the  greatest 
public  weal,  seem  to  retrograde.'  (Carpenter's  Whittier, 
pp.  221-222.) 

Compare  Emerson's  'Webster,'  p.  61,  and  the  note 
on  it :  and  Holmes'*  '  The  Statesman's  Secret,'  and 
"The  Birthday  of  Daniel  Webster.'  See  also  Pickard's 
Liff  of  Whittier,  vol.  i,  pp.  327-328. 

For  the  meaning  of  the  title,  see  1  Samuel  iv,  19-22  : 
'  And  she  named  the  child  Ichabod,  saying,  The  glory 
is  departed  from  Israel.'  It  may  have  been  sug- 
gested by  an  anonymous  article  of  Lowell's  on  Daniel 
Webster,  in  the  Anti-Slavery  Standard  (June,  1846), 
in  which  he  says :  '  Shall  not  the  Recording  Angel  write 
Ichabod  after  the  name  of  this  man  in  the  great  book 
of  Doom  ?  '  (Scudder's  Life  of  Lowell,  vol.  i,  p.  201.) 


And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 
Befit  his  fall ! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might  10 

Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 
Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven  ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow.  zo 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains  ; 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone  ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled  :  3o 

When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 
The  man  is  dead  ! 

Then  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 
1850.  1850. 


SONGS  OF  LABOR,  DEDICATION 

I  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,   seen   through    Friendship's   atmo- 
sphere, 

On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for  thy 
sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain  : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee, 
The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's  plain, 
And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls  from  the   westering  slope   of   life's 
autumnal  lea.  i« 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


283 


Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 

Where  youth's  enchanted  forest  stood 
Dry  root  and  mossed  trunk  between, 
A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 
As  springs  the   pine  where  falls  the  gay- 
leafed  maple  wood  ! 

Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 

Their  leaf -harps  in  the  sombre  tree ; 
And    through    the    bleak    and    wintry 

day 

It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,  — 
So,  even  my  after-thoughts  may    have   a 
charm  for  thee.  20 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 

And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse ; 1 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors  in 
its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The  orchard  bloom  and  tstsselled  maize 
That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The     unsung    beauty   hid    life's    common 
things  below.  30 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 

Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain 
A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 
Where  the   strong    working   hand   makes 
strong  the  working  brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of  pri- 
mal shame.  4o 

A  blessing  now,  a  curse  no  more  ; 

Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe  with 

awe, 

The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore, 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in  prayer,  fulfilling  the  same 
law. 

1850. 

1  For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted  to  Emer- 
son, in  his  inimitable  sonnet  to  the  Rhodora,  — 

If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing. 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

(WHITTIEB.) 


WORDSWORTH 

WRITTEN    ON    A     BLANK     LEAF     OF     HIS 
MEMOIRS 

DEAR  friends,  who  read  the  world  aright, 
And  in  its  common  forms  discern 

A  beauty  and  a  harmony 
The  many  never  learn  ! 

Kindred  in  soul  of  him  who  found 
In  simple  flower  and  leaf  and  stone 

The  impulse  of  the  sweetest  lays 
Our  Saxon  tongue  has  known,  — 

Accept  this  record  of  a  life 

As  sweet  and  pure,  as  calm  and  good, 
As  a  long  day  of  blandest  June 

In  green  field  and  in  wood. 

How  welcome  to  our  ears,  long  pained 
By  strife  of  sect  and  party  noise. 

The  brook-like  murmur  of  his  song 
Of  nature's  simple  joys  ! 

The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 

The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance-sown  daffodil,  have  lound 
Immortal  life  through  him. 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 
The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, 

World-seen,  are  gladdening  all  the  vales 
And  mountain-peaks  of  thought. 

Art  builds  on  sand;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passfon  change  and  fall; 

But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 
With  Him  surviveth  all. 

1851 


BENEDICITE 

GOD'S  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where 
Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair  I 

Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face, 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  1  . 


284 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Fair  Nature's  book  together  read,  10 

The  old  wood-paths  that  knew  our  tread, 
The  maple  shadows  overhead,  — 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine,  — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 

Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray, 
Thy  thought  goes  with  me  on  my  way, 
And  hence  the  prayer  I  breathe  to-day; 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  change  of  scene, 
The  weary  waste  which  lies  between         20 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou  lack'st  not  Friendship's  spell- word,  nor 
The  half-unconscious  power  to  draw 
All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet  law. 

With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  cast 
Thy  lot,  and  many  a  charm  thou  hast 
To  hold  the  blessed  angels  fast. 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  thee 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from  me, 

What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden  be  ?  30 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed,  — 
What  can  1  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need  ? 

God's  love, — unchanging,  pure,  and  true, — 
The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace,  —  the  fall  of  Hermon's  dew  ! 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day, 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee  dearest,  far  away  ! 


APRIL 

The  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way.  —  Christabel. 

'T  IS  the  noon  of  the  spring-time,  yet  never 

a  bird 
In   the  wind-shaken   elm  or  the  maple  is 

heard; 
For  green  meadow-grasses  wide  levels  of 

snow, 
And   blowing   of   drifts  where  the  crocus 

should  blow; 
Where  wind-flower  and  violet,  amber  and 

white, 


On  south-sloping  brooksides  should  smile 

in  the  light, 

O'er  the    cold  winter-beds   of   their   late- 
waking  roots 
The    frosty   flake   eddies,    the    ice-crystal 

shoots ; 
And,  longing  for  light,  under  wind-driven 

heaps, 
Round  the   boles   of    the   pine-wood    the 

ground-laurel  creeps,  10 

Unkissed   of   the   sunshine,  unbaptized  ot 

showers, 
With  buds  scarcely  swelled,  which  should 

burst  into  flowers  ! 
We  wait  for  thy  coming,  sweet  wind  of  the 

south  ! 
For  the  touch  of  thy  light  wings,  the  kiss 

of  thy  mouth; 
For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  bearest  from 

God, 
Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of  the 

sod  ! 
Up  our  long  river- valley,  for  days,  have  not 

ceased 

The  wail  and  tke  shriek  of  the  bitter  north- 
east, 
Raw  and  chill,  as  if  winnowed  through  ices 

and  snow, 

All  the  way  from  the  land  of  the  wild  Es- 
quimau, 20 
Until  all  our  dreams  of   the  land  of   the 

blest, 
Like  that  red  hunter's,  turn  to  the  sunny 

southwest. 
O  soul  of  the  spring-time,  its  light  and  its 

breath, 
Bring  warmth  to  this  coldness,  bring  life 

to  this  death; 

Renew  the  great  miracle ;  let  us  behold 
The  stone  from  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre 

rolled, 

And  Nature,  like  Lazarus,  rise,  as  of  old  ! 
Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and  cold- 
ness has  lain, 
Revive  with  the  warmth  and  the  brightness 

again, 
And  in  blooming  of  flower  and  budding  of 

tree  30 

The   symbols    and   types   of    our   destiny 

see; 
The  life  of  the  spring-time,  the  life  of  the 

whole, 
And,  as  sun  to  the  sleeping  earth,  love  to 

the  soul  ! 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


285 


ASTR^EA 

Jove  means  to  settle 
Astnva  in  her  seat  again, 
And  let  down  from  his  golden  chain 

An  age  of  better  metal. 

BEN  JONSON,  1615. 

O  POET  rare  and  old  ! 

Thy  words  are  prophecies; 
Forward  the  age  of  gold, 

The  new  Saturniau  lies. 

The  universal  prayer 

And  hope  are  not  in  vain; 
Rise,  brothers  !  and  prepare 

The  way  for  Saturn's  reign. 

Perish  shall  all  which  takes 
From  labor's  board  and  can; 

Perish  shall  all  which  makes 
A  spaniel  of  the  man  ! 

Free  from  its  bonds  the  mind, 

The  body  from  the  rod; 
Broken  all  chains  that  bind 

The  image  of  our  God. 

Just  men  no  longer  pine 

Behind  their  prison-bars; 
Through  the  rent  dungeon  shine 

The  free  sun  and  the  stars. 

Earth  own,  at  last,  untrod 

By  sect,  or  caste,  or  clan, 
The  fatherhood  of  God, 

The  brotherhood  of  man  ! 

Fraud  fail,  craft  perish,  forth 
The  money-changers  driven, 

And  God's  will  done  on  earth, 
As  now  in  heaven  ! 

1852. 


FIRST-DAY    THOUGHTS 

IN  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again 
I  find  my  old  accustomed  place  among 
My  brethren,  where,  perchance,  no  hu- 
man tongue 
Shall  utter  words  ;  where  never  hymn  is 

sung, 
Nor  deep-toned  organ  blown,  nor  censer 

swung, 

Nor  dim  light  falling  through  the  pictured 
pane  ! 


There,  syllabled  by  silence,  let  me  hear 
The  still   small  voice   which  reached  the 

prophet's  ear; 

Read  in  my  heart  a  still  diviner  law 
Than  Israel's  leader  on  his  tables  saw  ! 
There  let  me   strive   with  each  besetting 

sin, 

Recall   my  wandering   fancies,  and   re- 
strain 

The  sore  disquiet  of  a  restless  brain; 
And,  as  the  path  of  duty  is  made  plain, 
May   grace    be   given    that    I    may   walk 

therein, 
Not    like    the    hireling,    for    his    selfish 

gain, 

With  backward  glances  and  reluctant  tread, 
Making  a  merit  of  his  coward  dread, 

But,  cheerful,  in  the   light   around   me 

thrown, 

Walking  as  one  to  pleasant  service  led; 
Doing  God's  will  as  if  it  were  my  own, 
Yet  trusting  not  in  mine,  but  in  his  strength 
alone  ! 

1852. 


THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELECTION 
DAY 

THE  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 

The  highest  not  more  high  ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  of  men  am  I. 
To-day  alike  are  great  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  the  known; 
My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 

The  ballot-box  my  throne  ! 

Who  serves  to-day  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand;  10 

Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand  ! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day; 
And  sleekest  broadcloth  counts  no  more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  abide ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride.  20 

To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land  ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand  ! 


286 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


While  there  's  a-  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Than  Mammon's  vilest  dust,  — 
While  there  's  a  right,  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away,  3o 

Up  !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat ! 

A  man 's  a  man  to-day  ! 


SUMMER   BY   THE   LAKESIDE1 

LAKE   WINNIPESAUKEE 
I.   NOON 

WHITE  clouds,  whose   shadows  haunt  the 

deep, 

Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep  ! 

O  isles  of  calm  !  O  dark,  still  wood  ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

0  shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land,  10 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 
And  skies,  —  the  hollow  of  God's  hand  ! 

Transfused     through     you,    O    mountain 

friends  ! 

With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

1  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release  20 

Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 

O  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind  ! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

1  See  the  note  on  '  The  Lakeside,   p.  281. 


This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers  !        30 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 

And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow, 

Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  piirsues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall, 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call,  — 

That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray, 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say,  — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day  ! 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I     40 
Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  His  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree, 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 

What  light  and  life  the  other  know,          50 

Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.    EVENING 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night, 
While,   broad-orbed,   o'er   its    gleaming 
crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles,1 
Each     silver  -  hemmed  !     How    sharply 
show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below  ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem,  60 
Dim -looming    through    the   pale,    still 
light ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 
Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave, 

1  There  are  some  three  hundred  islands  in  Lake  Win- 
nipesaukee. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


287 


Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes  !  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 
Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 

What  time  before  the  eastern  light  7o 

The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  rnoon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 

And    the    young   archer,    Morn,    shall 
break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 

And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  ! 

Farewell  !  around  this  smiling  bay 

Gay-hearted  Health,  and  Life  in  bloom, 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave          So 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I: 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  or  bearding  boy, 

Nor     full -pulsed     manhood,     lingering 
here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy,  90 

The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all  ! 

Oh,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night,    100 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland  !  keep  thy  dower 
Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 

Thy  solemn  moimtains  speak  of  power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 


BURNS 


ON   RECEIVING   A    SPRIG   OF   HEATHER  IN 
BLOSSOM 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 

To  Scottish  maid  and  lover; 
Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 

They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In  smiles  and  tears,  in  sun  and  showers, 

The  minstrel  and  the  heather, 
The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 

He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burns  ! 

The  moorland  flower  and  peasant !  to 
How,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 

Her  pages  old  and  pleasant ! 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 

And  purple  of  adorning, 
And  manhood's  noonday  shadows  hold 

The  dews  of  boyhood's  morning. 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 
From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure, 

The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  of  toil 
With  golden  threads  of  leisure.  20 

I  call  to  mind  the  summer  day, 

The  early  harvest  mowing, 
The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play, 

And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

1  When  I  was  fourteen  years  old  my  first  school- 
master, Joshua  Coffin,  the  able,  eccentric  historian  of 
Newbury,  brought  with  him  to  our  house  a  volume  of 
Burns's  poems,  from  which  he  read,  greatly  to  my  de- 
light. I  begged  him  to  leave  the  book  with  me,  and 
set  myself  at  once  to  the  task  of  mastering  the  glossary 
of  the  Scottish  dialect  at  its  close.  This  was  about  the 
first  poetry  I  had  ever  read  (with  the  exception  of  that 
of  the  Bible,  of  which  I  had  been  a  close  student),  and 
it  had  a  lasting  influence  upon  me.  I  began  to  make 
rhymes  myself,  and  to  imagine  stories  and  adventures. 
(WHITTIEE,  in  his  Autobiographical  Letter  ;  Carpenter's 
Whittier,  pp.  298-299.) 

One  day  we  had  a  call  from  a  '  pawky  auld  carle '  of 
a  wandering  Scotchman.  To  him  I  owe  my  first  intro- 
duction to  the  songs  of  Burns.  After  eating  his  bread 
and  cheese  and  drinking  his  mug  of  cider  he  gave  us 
'  Bonny  Boon,'  '  Highland  Mary'  and  'Auld  Lang  Syne.' 
He  had  a  rich,  full  voice,  and  entered  lieartily  into  the 
spirit  of  his  lyrics.  I  have  since  listened  to  the  same 
melodies  from  the  lips  of  Dempster,  than  whom  the 
Scottish  bard  has  had  no  sweeter  or  truer  interpreter ; 
but  the  skilful  performance  of  the  artist  lacked  the 
novel  charm  of  the  gaberlunzie's  singing  in  the  old 
farmhouse  kitchen.  (WHITTIER,  '  Yankee  Gypsies,'  in 
his  Prose  Works,  vol.  i,  pp.  336-337 ;  also  quoted  in 
Carpenter's  Whittier,  p.  30.) 


288 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying; 
And,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 

I  sought  the  maple's  shadow,  30 

And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 
Forgetful  of  the  meadow  ! 

Bees   hummed,  birds  twittered,    overhead 

I  heard  the  squirrels  leaping, 
The  good  dog  listened  while  1  read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 

I  watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I  read  «  The  Twa  Dogs' '  story, 

And  half  believed  he  understood 

The  poet's  allegory.  40 

Sweet    day,    sweet    songs !     The    golden 
hours 

Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 
From  brook  and  bird  and  meadow  flowers 

A  dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New  light  on  home-seen  Nature  beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman; 
And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 

I  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better  50 

Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 

A  still  repining  debtor: 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid,  Art, 
The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing; 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 
When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 

Were  wandering  there  already  ?  60 

I  saw  through  all  familiar  things 

The  romance  underlying; 
The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 

Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 

The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 
That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 

And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 


I  matched  with  Scotland's  heathery  hills 
The  sweetbrier  and  the  clover;  70 

With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills, 
Their  wood  hymns  chanting  over. 

O'er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising; 
No  longer  common  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God's  baptizing  ! 

With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly ; 
The  Bible  at  his  Cotter's  hearth 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy.  80 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 

To  lawless  love  appealing, 
Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 

No  inward  answer  gaining; 
No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 

The  discord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 

His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings;  9^ 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song  !    I  own  my  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings  ! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty, 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty; 

But    think,   while    falls   that     shade    be- 
tween 

The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 
That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven.  ioc 

Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous  chime 

Eternal  echoes  render; 
The  mournful  Tuscan's  haunted  rhyme, 

And  Milton's  starry  splendor  ! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 

To  Nature's  bosom  nearer  ? 
Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 

To  love  a  tribute  dearer? 

Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 
The  human  feeling  gushes  !  nc 

The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 
Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes  ! 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


289 


Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 

So  '  Bonnie  Doon  '  but  tarry; 
Blot  out  the  Epic's  stately  rhyme, 

But  spare  his  '  Highland  Mary '  ! 
1854.  1854. 


MAUD    MULLER  i 

MAUD  MULLER  on  a  summer's  day 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  un- 
rest 

And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her 
breast,  —  10 

A  wish  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring  that 

flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled 

up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup,         2o 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On   her   feet    so   bare,    and    her  tattered 
gown. 

1  The  poem  had  no  real  foundation  in  fact,  though  a 
hint  of  it  may  have  been  found  in  recalling  an  incident, 
trivial  in  itself,  of  a  journey  on  the  picturesque  Maine 
seaboard  with  my  sister  some  years  before  it  was  writ- 
ten. We  had  stopped  to  rest  our  tired  horse  under  the 
shade  of  an  apple-tree,  and  refresh  him  with  water  from 
a  little  brook  which  rippled  through  the  stone  wall 
across  the  road.  A  very  beautiful  young  girl  in  scantest 
summer  attire  was  at  work  in  the  hay-field,  and  as  we 
talked  with  her  we  noticed  that  she  strove  to  hide  her 
bare  feet  by  raking  hay  over  them,  blushing  as  she  did 
BO,  through  the  tan  of  her  cheek  and  neck.  (WHITTIZK.  ) 


'  Thanks  !  '    said   the   Judge ;    '  a   sweeter 

draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed.' 

He  spoke  of  the   grass  and  flowers  and 

trees, 
Of   the    singing   birds   and   the   humming 

bees; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered 

whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring   foul 

weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown;   30 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed:  '  Ah  me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

'  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

'My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat; 
My  brother  sliould  sail  a  painted  boat.      4o 

'  I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each 
day. 

'  And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the 

poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door.' 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the 


udge 
hill, 


And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

'  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

'  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair.      50 

'  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay ; 

'  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 


290 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


<  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words.' 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and 

cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone.       60 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love- 
tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise.       7o 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret 

pain, 
*  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! 

'  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 
Where    the    barefoot    maiden    raked   her 
hay.' 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor,     79 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On    the    new-mown   hay   in   the   meadow 
lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein; 


And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 

She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face.     90 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  '  It  might  have  been.'  100 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The   saddest   are  these:    'It   might   have 
been  ! ' 

Ah,    well  !    for   us   all   some   sweet   hope 

lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 

Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  !        no 

1854. 


THE   RENDITION  1 

I  HEARD  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call, 
I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 

My  neighbor  told  me  all. 

And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched  handcuffed  down  that  sworded 
street, 

The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 
Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 

1  On  the  2d  of  June,  1854,  Anthony  Burns,  a  fugi- 
tive slave  from  Virginia,  after  being  under  arrest  for 
ten  days  in  the  Boston  Court  House,  was  remanded  to 
slavery  under  the  Fugitive  Slave  Act,  and  taken  down 
State  Street  to  a  steamer  chartered  by  the  United 
States  Government,  under  guard  of  United  States 
troops  and  artillery,  Massachusetts  militia  and  Boston 
police.  (WHITTKR.) 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


291 


I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss,  — 

Shame,     tearless     grief,     and     stifling 
wrath ,  10 

And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 
A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 
All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 
Sank     smothering     in   that     deep     dis- 
gust 

And  anguish  of  disgrace. 

Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 
And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 
Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 

Of  midnight  upon  noon  !  20 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong, 
Blood-drunken,    through    the    blackness 

trod, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

1 0  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud, 
Thy  old  renown,  dear  Commonwealth, 
Lend  this  dead  air  a  breeze  of  health, 

And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

1  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 
Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,'  I  said;        30 
Ah  me  !  I  spake  but  to  the  dead ; 

I  stood  upon  her  grave  ! 

1854,  1854. 


ARISEN    AT   LAST1 

I  SAID  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 

My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clonib  the  skies  of  June. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wing, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring  ! 

Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms         10 
Are  round  about  thy  children  flung,  — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young  ! 

1  On  the  passage  of  the  bill  to  protect  the  rights  and 
liberties  of  the  people  of  the  State  against  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Act.  (WHrrnBR.) 


No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips, 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its  light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 

His  first  low  howl  shall  downward  draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law.          21 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan, 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 

So  shalt  thou  clothe  with  life  the  hope, 
Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise,  — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue,  as  in  stature  great 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State.  3C 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last; 

When    North   and  South   shall   strive  no 
more, 

And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 

In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 
1855.  1855? 


THE    BAREFOOT   BOY 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 
Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 


292 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day,          20 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young,  30 

How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  ! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks,  4o 

Nature  answers  all  he  asks; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees,  50 

Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond,  60 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 

Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread;          70 

Pewter  spoon  arid  bowl  of  wood, 


On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire.  go 

I  was  monarch:  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 

Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 

Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 

Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 

Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 

Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 

Every  evening  from  thy  feet 

Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat:          9o 

All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 

In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 

Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 

Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 

Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 

Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil: 

Happy  if  their  track  be  found 

Never  on  forbidden  ground; 

Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 

Qiiick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin.      100 

Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 

Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

1855? 


THE   LAST  WALK  IN   AUTUMN 


O'ER  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretched 

hands 

Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in  vain, 
I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea's  long  level  dim  with  rain. 
Around  me  all  things,  stark  and  dumb, 
Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 
And,  for  the  summer  bloom  and  greenness 

gone, 

With  winter's   sunset   lights  and  dazzling 
morn  atone. 


Along  the  river's  summer  walk, 
The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod; 

And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 

The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden-rod. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


293 


And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 

And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  birch  its  buds  of  purple  shows, 
And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed  the 
sweet  wild-rose  ! 


With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and  bells, 
A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese  fly, 
Storm-sent,  from  Arctic  moors  and  fells, 
Like  a  great  arrow  through  the  sky,  20 
Two  duskv  lines  converged  in  one, 
Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun; 
While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the  hardy 

jay 

Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid 
them  stay. 


year  ago: 

ie  wind  blew  south ;  the  noon  of  day 
Was  warm  as  June's;  and  save  that  snow 

Flecked  the  low  mountains  far  away, 
And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked  faded  grass  and  leafless  trees,  30 
I  might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as  I  lay, 
Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the  soft 
wind  at  play. 


Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have  piled 

The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong  and 

wild, 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,  set  free, 
Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea; 
And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green  and 

gold, 

The  summer  corn  has  waved,  the  thunder's 
organ  rolled.  4o 


llich  gift  of  God  !   A  year  of  time  ! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What    hues    wherewith    our    Northern 

clime 
Makes  autumn's  dropping  woodlands 

gay, 

What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 
And  clover-bloom  and  sweetbrier  smells, 
What   songs   of   brooks   and    birds,   what 

fruits  and  flowers, 

Green  woods  and  moonlit  snows,  have  in 
its  round  been  ours  ! 


I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go;   50 
What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 

What  purple  lights,  on  Alpine  snow  ! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a  travel- 
ler's tale. 


Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 

Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails; 
And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils      60 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noonday  air, 
And  from  cloud  minarets  hears  the  sunset 
call  to  prayer ! 


The  eye  may  well  be  glad  that  looks 

Where  Pharpar's  fountains  rise  and  fall ; 
But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 

Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them  all. 
The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind;  7o 
From   his  lone   sweetbrier   Persian   Hafiz 

smiles, 

And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his  wood- 
land aisles. 


And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 

The  near  at  hand  and  far  and  rare ; 

1  With  this  and  the  following  stanzas,  compare  Em- 
erson's '  Written  in  Naples,'  and  the  note  on  it ;  Lowell's 
'  An  Invitation  ; '  Holmes's  '  After  a  Lecture  on  Words- 
worth;' and  Whittier's  'To ': 

No  sweeter  bowers  the  bee  delayed, 
In  wild  Hymettuo'  scented  shade, 
Than  those  you  dwell  among  ; 
Snow-flowered  azaleas,  intertwined 


A  charmed  life  unknown  to  death. 
Immortal  freshness  Nature  hath  ; 
Her  fabled  fount  and  glen 
Are  now  and  here  :  Dodona's  shrine 


The  Beauty  which  old  Greece  or  Rome 
Sung,  painted,  wrought,  lies  close  at  home  ; 
We  need  but  eye  and  ear 


See  also  Whittier's  Introduction  to  the  Forms  of 
J.  G.  C.  Brainard,  quoted  in  Carpenter's  Whiitier,  pp. 
86-87 ;  and  further,  in  Whittier's  own  poems,  '  Our 
River,'  and  the  Prelude  to  '  Among  the  Hills.' 


294 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 
Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which  flashed  the  light  of  morning  skies 
On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes, 
Within  its  round  of  sea  and  sky  and  field, 
Earth  wheels  with  all  her  zones,  the  Kosmos 
stands  revealed.  80 


And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 

The  toiler  to  his  task-work  bound, 
Behold  their  prison-walls  outspread, 

Their  clipped  horizon  widen  round  ! 
While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits, 
Like  Peter's  angel  at  the  gates, 
The  power  is  theirs  to  baffle  care  and  pain, 
To  bring  the  lost  world  back,  and  make  .it 
theirs  again  ! 


What  lack  of  goodly  company, 

When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre      90 
Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 

Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and  fire  ! 
I  talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 
I  read  the  world  with  Pascal's  eyes ; 
And  priest  and   sage,  with  solemn  brows 

austere, 

And   poets,   garland-bound,  the   Lords   of 
Thought,  draw  near. 


Methinks,  O  friend,  I  hear  thee  say, 

'  In  vain  the  human  heart  we  mock; 
Bring  living  guests  who  love  the  day, 

Not  ghosts  who  fly  at  crow  of  cock  !  100 
The  herbs  we  share  with  flesh  and  blood 
Are  better  than  ambrosial  food 
With  laurelled  shades.'    I  grant  it,  nothing 

loath, 
But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  partake  of 


He  who  might  Plato's  banquet  grace, 

Have  I  not  seen  before  me  sit, 
And  watched  his  puritanic  face, 

With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom  lit  ? 
Shrewd  mystic  !  who,  upon  the  back 
Of  his  Poor  Richard's  Almanac  no 

Writing    the    Sufi's    song,    the    Gentoo's 

dream, 

Links  Manu's  age  of  thought  to  Fulton's 
age  of  steam  ! 
i  xiv-xvi,  Emerson,  Bayard  Taylor,  Sumner. 


Here  too,  of  answering  love  secure, 

Have  I  not  welcomed  to  my  hearth 
The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour, 

Whose   songs   have   girdled   half   the 

earth ; 

Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the  Eastern  lover  sat, 
Have  borne  me  over  Rhine-land's  purple 

vines, 

And  Nubia's  tawny  sands,  and  Phrygia's 
mountain  pines  !  120 


And  he,  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 

Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced, 
The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 

The  ethics  of  the  school  of  Christ; 
The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 
As  the  Athenian  archon,  just, 
Struck   down,  exiled   like    him    for   truth 

alone, 

Has  he  not  graced  my  home  with  beauty  all 
his  own  ? 


What  greetings   smile,   what   farewells 

wave, 

What  loved  ones  enter  and  depart !  130 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
The    Heaven-lent    treasures    of    the 

heart ! 

How  conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 
And  beechen  slope  whereon  they  trod  ! 
The  oak-leaves  rustle,  and  the  dry  grass 

bends 

Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or  absent 
friends. 


Then  ask  not  why  to  these  bleak  hills 

I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 
To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills,    139 

The  mocking  spring's  perpetual  loss. 
I  dream  of  lands  where  summer  smiles, 
And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy  isles, 
But  scarce  woiild  Ceylon's  breath  of  flow- 
ers be  sweet, 

Could  I  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  England,  at 
my  feet ! 


At  times  I  long  for  gentrer  skies, 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 
But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the  eyes 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


29S 


That  saw  the  Cross  without  the  Bear. 

The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 

The      north-wind      break     the      tropic 

calm;  150 

And    with    the    dreamy    languor   of    the 

Line, 

The  North's  keen  virtue  blend,  and  strength 
to  beauty  join. 


Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 
The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie, 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by  ! 
Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 
The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike  aim 
to  know.  160 


Home  of  my  heart !  to  me  more  fair 

Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor's  halls, 
The  painted,  shingly  town-house  where 

The  freeman's  vote  for  Freedom  falls  ! 
The  simple  roof  where  prayer  is  made, 
Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade ; 
The  living  temple  of  the  heart  of  man, 
Than  Rome's  sky-mocking  vault,  or  many- 
spired  Milan  ! 


More  dear  thy  equal  village  schools, 

Where     rich     and     poor    the    Bible 

read,  170 

Than  classic  halls  where  Priestcraft  rules, 

And    Learning  wears    the   chains   of 

Creed; 

Thy  glad  Thanksgiving,  gathering  in 
The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and  kin, 
Than  the    mad  license    ushering    Lenten 

pains, 

Or  holidays  of  slaves  who  laugh  and  dance 
in  chains. 


And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these  dales, 

And  perch  along  these  wooded  swells; 
And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales, 

They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime,   181 
Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time, 
But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  race, 
Old  home-bred  virtues  hold  their  not  un- 
b^nored  place. 


Here  manhood  struggles  for  the  sake 

Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife, 

The  graces  and  the  loves  which  make 

The  music  of  the  march  of  life; 
And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of  duty,  walks  on  holy  ground.  i9o 

No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor  here 
Is  the  bad  lesson  learned  at  human  rights 
to  sneer. 


Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 

The  trumpets  of  the  coming  storm, 
To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 

Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  transform. 
Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted  cold, 
As  gayly  as  I  did  of  old; 
And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the  frosty 

pane, 

Uneuvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood  o'er 
again.  200 


And  I  will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 

The  life  that  hides  in  mead  and  wold, 
Who  hangs  yon  alder's  crimson  beads, 
And   stains   these    mosses   green   and 

gold, 

Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 
His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine; 
Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong  de- 
bar, 

And,  as  the  earth  grows  dark,  make  brighter 
every  star  ! 


I  have  not  seen,  I  may  not  see, 

My  hopes  for  man  take  form  in  fact, 
But  God  will  give  the  victory  21 » 

In  due  time;  in  that  faith  I  act. 
And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 
The  baffling  present  may  endure, 
And   bless,   meanwhile,  the   unseen  Hand 

that  leads 

The  heart's  desires  beyond  the  halting  step 
of  deeds. 


And  thou,  my  song,  I  send  thee  forth, 
Where    harsher  songs  of   mine  have 

flown; 

Go,  find  a  place  at  home  and  hearth 
Where'er      thy      singer's      name     is 
known;  220 


296 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Revive  for  him  the  kindly  thought 
Of  friends ;  and  they  who  love  him  not, 
Touched  by  some  strain  of  thine,  perchance 

may  take 
The  hand  he  proffers  all,  and  thank  him  for 

thy  sake. 
1856.  1857. 


SKIPPER    IRESON'S   RIDE1 

OF  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calender's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak,  — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 
cart  jo 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain: 

'  Here  's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 
horrt,  20 

Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  ' 

1  The  story  of  Skipper  Ireson  was  told  to  Whittier  by 
a  schoolmate  from  Marblehead,  when  he  was  a  student 
in  Haverhill  Academy  (see  Pickard's  Life,  vol.  ii,  p. 
409,  and  the  poem  '  A  Sea  Dream '),  and  he  began  to 
write  the  ballad  at  that  time,  in  1828.  It  was  finished, 
and  published  in  the  second  number  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  in  1857.  Lowell,  then  editor  of  the  Atlantic, 
suggested  the  use  of  dialect  in  the  refrain  (see  Scud- 
der's  Life  of  Lowell,  vol.  i,  pp.  417-418,  and  Lowell's 
Letters,  the  letter  to  Whittier  of  Nov.  4,  1857). 

Mr.  Samuel  Roads,  Jr.,  in  his  History  of  Marblehead, 
published  in  1879,  tried  to  show  that  Captain  Ireson 
was  not  responsible  for  the  abandonment  of  the  dis- 
abled ship.  Whittier  characteristically  wrote  to  Mr. 
Roads:  — 

' .  .  .  I  have  now  no  doubt  that  thy  version  of  Skip- 
per Ireson's  ride  is  the  correct  one.  My  verse  was 
founded  solely  on  a  fragment  of  rhyme  which  I  heard 
from  one  of  my  early  schoolmates,  a  native  of  Marble- 
head.  I  supposed  the  story  to  which  it  referred  dated 
back  at  least  a  century.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  partici- 
pators, and  the  narrative  of  the  ballad  was  pure  fancy. 
I  am  glad  for  the  sake  of  truth  and  justice  that  the 
real  facts  are  given  in  thy  book.  I  certainly  would  not 
knowingly  do  injustice  to  any  one,  dead  or  living. 

•  I  am  very  truly  thy  friend,  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER.' 


Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 
Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 
Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 
With   conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns' 

twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang:  30 

'  Here  's    Flud   Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 

horrt, 

Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  ! ' 

Small  pity  for  him  !  —  He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship  in  Chaleur  Bay,  — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck  \ 
1  Lay  by  !  lay  by  ! '  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  '  Sink  or  swim  ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  ! '  40 

And   off   he    sailed  through   the   fog  and 

rain  ! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked   for   the    coming   that   might   not 
be  !  50 

What   did    the    winds    and   the    sea-birds 

say 

Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea- worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound,          6c 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  cracked   with  curses   the   hoarse  re- 
frain : 

'  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  ! ' 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


297 


Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim,  71 

Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near  : 

'  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  ' 

'  Hear  me,  neighbors  ! '  at  last  he  cried,  — 
'  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin   80 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck  ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead  ! ' 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered   and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  '  God  has  touched  him !  why  should 
we  ! '  90 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
*  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run  ! ' 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 
1828,  1857.  1857. 

THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE 

ANN 

FROM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far 

beneath  the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the 

headland  of  Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the 

ebb-tide  glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of 

its  ancient  fishing-town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning,  and 

its  memory  waxes  old, 
When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with  a 

pleasant  friend  I  strolled. 


Ah  !  the   autumn  sun  is  shining,  and   the 

ocean  wind  blows  cool, 
And  the  golden-rod  and  aster  bloom  around 

thy  grave,  Rantoul ! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the 

summer  sea  I  blend 
A  wild  and  wondrous  story,  by  the  younger 

Mather  penned,  10 

In  that  quaint  Magnolia  Christi,  with  all 

strange  and  marvellous  things, 
Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like  the 

chaos  Ovid  sings. 

Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the 

dual  life  of  old, 
Inward,  grand   with   awe   and   reverence; 

outward,  mean  and  coarse  and  cold; 
Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull 

and  vulgar  clay, 
Golden-threaded  fancies  weaving  in  a  web 

of  hodden  gray. 

The  great  eventful  Present  hides  the  Past; 

but  through  the  din 
Of  its  loud  life  hints  and  echoes  from,  the 

life  behind  steal  in; 
And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and  the 

legendary  rhyme, 
Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the 

true  man  owes  his  time.  20 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which  the 
Covenanter  knew, 

When  with  pious  chisel  wandering  Sect- 
land's  moorland  graveyards  through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part 
the  blackberry-vines, 

Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  headstones, 
and  retouch  the  faded  lines. 


Where  the    sea-waves  back   and  forward, 

hoarse  with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 
The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the 

gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann; 
On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and 

palisade, 
And  rough  walls  of   unhewn  timber  with 

the  moonlight  overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south 
and  eastward  looking  forth 

O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coast-line,  white 
with  breakers  stretching  north,  —  3o 


298 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift, 
jagged  capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 

Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the 
wild  and  gusty  sea. 

Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly 

lit  by  dying  brands, 
Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their 

muskets  in  their  hands; 
On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison 

haunch  was  shared, 
And   the   pewter   tankard   circled    slowly 

round  from  beard  to  beard. 

Long    they   sat    and    talked    together, — 

talked  of  wizards  Satan-sold; 
Of   all   ghostly  sights  and  noises,  —  signs 

and  wonders  manifold; 
Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead 

men  in  her  shrouds, 
Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom 

of  morning  clouds;  40 

Of  the   marvellous  valley  hidden   in   the 

depths  of  Gloucester  woods, 
Full  of   plants   that   love  the  summer,  — 

blooms  of  warmer  latitudes; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the 

tropic's  flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms   star  the 

twilight  of  the  pines  ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to 

husky  tones  of  fear, 
As   they  spake    of   present  tokens  of   the 

powers  of  evil  near;  — 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel 

and  aim  of  gun; 
Never  yet  was   ball   to   slay  them   in  the 

mould  of  mortals  run  ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks, 

from     the     midnight     wood     they 

came,  — 
Thrice  around  the  block-house   marching, 

met,  unharmed,  its  volleyed  flame ;  50 
Then,  with   mocking   laugh   and   gesture, 

sunk  in  earth  or  lost  in  air, 
All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the 

moonlit  sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight  came;  from  out  the  forest  moved 

a  dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew   to    warriors,   plumed   and   painted, 

grimly  marching  in  the  moon. 


'  Ghosts  or  witches,'  said  the  captain,  '  thus 

I  foil  the  Evil  One  ! ' 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his 

doublet,  down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the 

guarded  wall  about; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through 

the  palisades  flashed  out, 
With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his 

tree-top  might  not  shun, 
Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his 

slant  wing  to  the  sun.  60 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harm- 
less shower  of  lead. 

With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again 
the  phantoms  fled; 

Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands 
the  moonlight  lay, 

And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it 
drifted  slowly  down  the  bay  ! 

'  God  preserve  us  ! '  said  the  captain  ;  '  never 

mortal  foes  were  there; 
They    have    vanished    with   their   leader, 

Prince  and  Power  of  the  air  ! 
Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons;  skill  and 

prowess  naught  avail; 
They  who  do  the  Devil's  service  wear  their 

master's  coat  of  mail ! ' 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when 
again  a  warning  call 

Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watch- 
ing round  the  dusky  hall:  7° 

And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming, 
and  they  longed  for  break  of 
day; 

But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible:  'Let  us 
cease  from  man,  and  pray  ! ' 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the 

unseen  powers  seemed  near, 
And   their  steadfast   strength   of   courage 

struck  its  roots  in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head 

was  bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones, 

as  the  captain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the 

spectres  round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the 

ears  and  hearts  of  all,  — 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


299 


Howls   of  rage   and   shrieks   of   anguish  ! 

Never  after  mortal  man 
Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round 

the  block-house  of  Cape  Ann.          80 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through  the 

cool  and  sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes  the 

solemn  legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose 

moral  lives  the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the    freshness  of  an 

undecaying  truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the 

spectres  of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread   forebodings, 

in  the  darkness  undefined; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of 

the  heart  and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and 

the  cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children;  and  no 

answer  from  on  high 
Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and 

no  white  wings  downward  fly;         90 
But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes 

to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward 

all  the  spirits  of  the  night ! 

1857. 

THE    PIPES    AT    LUCKNOW1 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 

Voice  of  the  glens  and  hills; 
The  droning  of  the  torrents, 

The  treble  of  the  rills  ! 
Not  the  braes  of  bloom  and  heather, 

Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 
Nor  maiden  bower,  nor  border  tower, 

Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain  ! 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer,  —  10 

To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear;  — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

1  An  incident  of  the  Siege  of  Lucknow,  during  the 
mutiny  of  the  native  troops  in  India,  1857.  See  Ten- 
nyson's superb  ballad,  '  The  Belief  of  Lucknow.' 


Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept; 
Round  and  round  the  jungle-serpent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept.  20 

'  Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers,  — 

Pray  to-day  ! '  the  soldier  said; 
'  To-morrow,  death  's  between  us 

And  the  wrong  and  shame  we  dread.' 

Oh,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 
Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground:  30 

'  Diima  ye  hear  it  ?  —  dinna  ye  hear  it  ? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound  ! ' 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groaning: 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true;  — 
As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew.  4o 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 

Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 

Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 
She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 

She  knew  the  Campbell's  call: 
'  Hark  !  hear  ye  no  MacGregor's, 

The  grandest  o'  them  all ! ' 

Oh,    they    listened,    dumb     and     breath- 
Jess, 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last;        y 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast  I 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's; 
'  God  be  praised  !  —  the   march  of  Have- 
lock  ! 

The  piping  of  the  clans  ! ' 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan-call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life.  6c 

But  when  the  far-off  dust-cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew  ! 


300 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  mosque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 1 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose  that  sweet  and  homelike  strain; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban,  71 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 

Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music  80 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played  ! 
1857-1858.  1858. 


TELLING   THE   BEES  2 

HERE  is  the  place ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  1  took; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow 
brook. 

There   is    the    house,  with  the  gate  red- 
barred, 
And  the  poplars  tall; 

1  It  is  in  strict  accordance  with  the  facts   of  the 
rescue.   In  the  distance  the  beleaguered  garrison  heard 
the  stern  and  vengeful  slogan  of  the  MaoGrepors,  but 
when  the  troops  of  Havelock  came  in  view  of  the  Eng- 
lish flag  still  floating  from   the  Residency,  the   pipers 
struck  up  the  immortal  air  of  Burns,  '  Should  Auld 
Acquaintance  be  Forgot.'     (WHITTIER,  in  a  letter  to 
Lowell,  April  10,  1858.) 

2  A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the  Old  Coun- 
try, formerly  prevailed  in  the  rural  districts  of  New 
England.   On  the  death  of  a  member  of  the  family,  the 
bees  were  at  once  informed  of  the  event,  and  their 
hives  dressed  in  mourning.    This  ceremonial  was  sup- 
posed to  be  necessary  to  prevent  the  swarms  from  leav- 
ing their  hives  and  seeking  a  new  home.    (WHITTIER.) 

The  place  Whittier  had  in  mind  in  writing  '  Telling 
the  Bees '  was  his  birthplace.  There  were  bee-hives  on 
the  garden  terrace  near  the  well-sweep,  occupied  per- 
haps by  the  descendants  of  Thomas  Whittier's  bees. 
The  approach  to  the  house  from  over  the  northern 
shoulder  of  Job's  Hill  by  a  path  that  was  in  constant 
use  in  his  boyhood  and  is  still  in  existence,  is  accurately 
described  in  the  poem.  The  'gap  in  the  old  wall '  is 
still  to  be  seen,  and  '  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow 
brook '  are  still  in  use.  His  sister's  garden  was  down 
by  the  brook-side  in  front  of  the  house,  and  her  daffo- 
dils are  perpetuated  and  may  now  be  found  in  their 
season  each  year  in  that  place.  The  red-barred  gate, 
the  poplars,  the  cattle  yard  with  '  the  white  horns  toss- 
ing above  the  wall,'  these  were  all  part  of  Whittier's 
boy  life  on  the  old  farm.  (Pickard's  Life  of  Whittier, 
vol.  ii,  pp.  414-415.) 

See  also  Pickard's  Whillier-Land,  pp.  17-18. 


And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle- 
yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the 
wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun ; 

And  down  by  the  brink  10 

Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed- 
o'errun, 

Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow; 

And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun 
glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There  's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the 
breeze ; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm.     20 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed  my 

hair, 

And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my  brow 
and  throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed,  — 

To  love,  a  year; 
Down   through   the   beeches   I   looked  at 

last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep 
near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now,  —  the  slantwise  rain 
Of  light  through  the  leaves,  30 

The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 
The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the 
door,  — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black. 

Trembling,  I  listened:  the  summer  sun    41 
Had  the  chill  of  snow; 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


301 


For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 
Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go  ! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  '  My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day: 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away.' 

But  her  dog  whined  low;  on  the  doorway 
sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin,  50 

The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on :  — 
'  Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence  ! 

Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone  !  ' 


THE    CABLE   HYMN 

O  LONELY  bay  of  Trinity, 

O  dreary  snores,  give  ear  ! 
Lean  down  unto  the  white-lipped  sea 

The  voice  of  God  to  hear  ! 

From  world  to  world  his  couriers  fly, 
Thought-winged  and  shod  with  fire; 

The  angel  of  his  stormy  sky 
Rides  down  the  sunken  wire. 

What  saith  the  herald  of  the  Lord  ? 

'  The  world's  long  strife  is  done ;  10 

Close  wedded  by  that  mystic  cord, 

Its  continents  are  one. 

'  And  one  in  heart,  as  one  in  blood, 

Shall  all  her  peoples  be ; 
The  hands  of  human  brotherhood 

Are  clasped  beneath  the  sea. 

'  Through  Orient  seas,  o'er  Afric's  plain 

And  Asian  mountains  borne, 
The  vigor  of  the  Northern  brain 

Shall  nerve  the  world  outworn.  20 

'  From  clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Shall  thrill  the  magic  thread; 
The  new  Prometheus  steals  once  more 

The  fire  that  wakes  the  dead.' 

Throb  on,  strong  pulse  of  thunder!  beat 
From  answering  beach  to  beach; 


Fuse  nations  in  thy  kindly  heat, 
And  melt  the  chains  of  each  ! 

Wild  terror  of  the  sky  above, 

Glide  tamed  and  dumb  below  !  30 

Bear  gently,  Ocean's  carrier-dove, 

Thy  errands  to  and  fro. 

Weave  on,  swift  shuttle  of  the  Lord, 

Beneath  the  deep  so  far, 
The  bridal  robe  of  earth's  accord, 

The  funeral  shroud  of  war  ! 

For  lo  !  the  fall  of  Ocean's  wall 
Space  mocked  and  time  outrun; 

And  round  the  world  the  thought  of  all 
Is  as  the  thought  of  one  !  44 

The  poles  unite,  the  zones  agree, 
The  tongues  of  striving  cease ; 
As  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee 

The  Christ  is  whispering,  Peace  ! 
1858.  1858. 

MY    PSALM 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years: 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west-winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 
I  hear  the  glad  streams  run; 

The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear;  10 

But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 
The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 
To  harvest  weed  and  tare; 

The  manna  dropping  from  God's  hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

I  welcome  at  my  door.  ac 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 
Among  the  ripening  corn, 

Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 
Blow  through  the  autumn  morn; 


302 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given ;  — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of  praise, 
The  south-wind  softly  sigh,  30 

And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 
Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 

Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong; 
The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the  sword 

Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But  smiting  hands  shall  learn  to  heal,  — 

To  build  as  to  destroy; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy.  40 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And  knoweth  more  of  all  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told  ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 
Have  marked  my  erring  track ; 

That  whereso'er  my  feet  have  swerved, 
His  chastening  turned  me  back; 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood,  50 

Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 
Sweet  with  eternal  good;  — 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 

Which  opens  into  light, 
Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 

Beyond  the  Father's  sight; 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 

In  purple  distance  fair;  60 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 

Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 
And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 

Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 

1859. 


BROWN    OF   OSSAWATOMIE 

JOHN  BROWN  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his 

dying  day: 
'  I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest 

in  Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I 

have  striven  to  free, 
With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair 

put  up  a  prayer  for  me  ! ' 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him 

out  to  die; 
And  lo  !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little 

child  pressed  nigh. 
Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and 

the  old  harsh  face  grew  mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks 

and  kissed  the  negro's  child  ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment 
fell  apart; 

And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  for- 
gave the  loving  heart. 

That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  re- 
deemed the  good  intent, 

And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  mar- 
tyr's aureole  bent ! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through 

evil  good  ! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained 

with  human  blood  ! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the 

thought  which  underlies; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the 

Christian's  sacrifice. 

Nevermore  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  North- 
ern rifle  hear, 

Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on 
the  negro's  spear. 

But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their 
guarded  passes  scale, 

To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and 
justice  more  than  mail  ! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in 

array; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the 

winter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she 

dares  not  harm  the  dove; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open 

wide  to  Love  !  1859. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


3°3 


MY    PLAYMATE i 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Rarnoth  hill, 

Their  song  was  soft  and  low; 
The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 

Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 

The  orchard  birds  sang  clear; 
The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 

It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home,  10 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine: 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May: 

The  constant  years  told  o'er 
Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 

But  she  came  back  no  more.  20 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 

She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  —  30 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And     still    the    May -day    flowers    make 
sweet 

The  woods  of  Follyniill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

1  Compare  the  poem  '  Memories,'  and  see  Pickard's 
Life  of  Whittier,  vol.  i,  p.  276,  vol.  ii,  pp.  426^28,  and 
Whittier-Land,  pp.  66-67. 


The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea.  4o 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems,  — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice; 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours,  —  Sc 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time  ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago.  60 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee  ! 

I860. 


Tennyson  said  of  this  poem  and  of  Whittier,  '  It  is  a       „ , r 

perfect  poem  ;  in  some  of  his  descriptions  of  scenery       go,  without  surrender  of  principles,  in  concessions  to 
Md  wild-flowv*-  he  would  rank  with  Wordsworth.'          I    the  Southern  party.     (WmrnEE.) 


TO    WILLIAM    H.   SEWARD  2 

STATESMAN,  I  thank  thee  !  and,  if  yet  dis- 
sent 

Mingles,  reluctant,  with  my  large  content, 
I  cannot  censure  what  was  nobly  meant. 
But,  while  constrained  to  hold  even  Union 

less 

Than  Liberty  and  Truth  and  Righteousness, 
I  thank  thee  in  the  sweet  and  holy  name 
Of  peace,  for  wise  calm  words  that  put  to 

shame 

Passion  and  party.    Courage  may  be  shown 
Not  in  defiance  of  the  wrong  alone; 
He  may  be  bravest  who,  unweaponed,  bears 

2  On  the  12th  of  January,  1861,  Mr.  Seward  delivered 
in  the  Senate  chamber  a  speech  on  '  The  State  of  the 
Union,'  in  which  he  urged  the  paramount  duty  of  pre- 
serving the  Union,  and  went  as  far  as  it  was  possible  to 


304 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


The   olive  branch,  and,  strong  in   justice, 

spares 

The  rash  wrong-doer,  giving  widest  scope 
Tu  Christian  charity  and  generous  hope. 
If,  without  damage  to  the  sacred  cause 
Of  Freedom  and  the  safeguard  of  its  laws  — 
If,  without  yielding  that  for  which  alone 
We  prize  the  Union,  thou  canst  save  it  now 
From  a  baptism  of  blood,  upon  thy  brow 
A  wreath   whose   flowers   no   earthly  soil 

have  known. 

Woven  of  the  beatitudes,  shall  rest, 
And  the  peacemaker  be  forever  blest  ! 
1861.  1861. 


OUR   RIVER 

FOR     A      SUMMER      FESTIVAL     AT      'THE 
LAURELS  '  ON  THE  MERRIMAC 

ONCE  more  on  yonder  laurelled  height 

The  summer  flowers  have  budded; 
Once  more  with  summer's  golden  light 

The  vales  of  home  are  flooded; 
And  once  more,  by  the  grace  of  Him 

Of  every  good  the  Giver, 
We  sing  upon  its  wooded  rim 

The  praises  of  our  river: 

Its  pines  above,  its  waves  below, 

The  west-wind  down  it  blowing,  10 

A  s  fair  as  when  the  young  Brissot 

Beheld  it  seaward  flowing,  — 
And  bore  its  memory  o'er  the  deep, 

To  soothe  the  martyr's  sadness, 
And  fresco,  in  his  troubled  sleep, 

His  prison-walls  with  gladness. 

We  know  the  world  is  rich  with  streams 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
Whose  music  murmurs  through  our  dreams 

Of  human  love  and  glory:  20 

We  know  that  Arno's  banks  are  fair, 

And  Rhine  has  castled  shadows, 
And,  ppet-tuued,  the  Doon  and  Ayr 

Go  singing  down  their  meadows. 

But  while,  unpictured  and  unsung 

By  painter  or  by  poet, 
Our  river  waits  the  tuneful  tongue 

And  cunning  hand  to  show  it,  — 
We  only  know  the  fond  skies  lean 

Above  it,  warm  with  blessing,  30 

And  the  sweet  soul  of  our  Undine 

Awakes  to  our  caressing. 


No  fickle  sun-god  holds  the  flocks 

That  graze  its  shores  in  keeping; 
No  icy  kiss  of  Dian  mocks 

The  youth  beside  it  sleeping  : 
Our  Christian  river  loveth  most 

The  beautiful  and  human; 
The  heathen  streams  of  Naiads  boast, 

But  ours  of  man  and  woman.  40 

The  miner  in  his  cabin  hears 

The  ripple  we  are  hearing; 
It  whispers  soft  to  homesick  ears 

Around  the  settler's  clearing: 
In  Sacramento's  vales  of  corn, 

Or  Santee's  bloom  of  cotton, 
Our  river  by  its  valley-born 

Was  never  yet  forgotten. 

The  drum  rolls  loud,  the  bugle  fills 

The  summer  air  with  clangor;  50 

The  war-storm  shakes  the  solid  hills 

Beneath  its  tread  of  anger ; 
Young  eyes  that  last  year  smiled  in  ours 

Now  point  the  rifle's  barrel, 
And   hands   then   stained   with  fruit   and 
flowers 

Bear  redder  stains  of  quarrel. 

But  blue  skies   smile,  and  flowers   bloom 
on, 

And  rivers  still  keep  flowing, 
The  dear  God  still  his  rain  and  sun 

On  good  and  ill  bestowing.  60 

His  pine-trees  whisper,  '  Trust  and  wait  ! ' 

His  flowers  are  prophesying 
That  all  we  dread  of  change  or  fate 

His  love  is  underlying. 

And  thou,  O  Mountain-born  !  —  no  more 

We  ask  the  wise  Allotter 
Than  for  the  firmness  of  thy  shore, 

The  calmness  of  thy  water, 
The  cheerful  lights  that  overlay 

Thy  rugged  slopes  with  beauty,  70 

To  match  our  spirits  to  our  day 

And  make  a  joy  of  duty. 
1861.  1861. 


AMY   WENTWORTH 

HER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 
They  dance  so  light  along; 

The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITT1ER 


3°S 


O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles  ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings;  10 

The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 
Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise, 

But  dreams  the  while  of  one 
Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 

The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  every  fog-wreath  dim, 
And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 

Bear  messages  to  him.  20 

She    speeds    them    with    the    thanks    of 
men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town  !  — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 
For  him  the  blush  of  shame  30 

Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 
Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 

And  blood  is  not  like  wine ; 
Xor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 

Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  Fortune's  spur; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

WTho  lifts  himself  to  her.  40 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 

With  stately  stairways  worn 
By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 

And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 


And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 
Ancestral  faces  frown,  —  50 

And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 
And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-side, 
And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers; 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 

The  mosses  are  her  flowers.  6e 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly; 
.His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 
Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold  ! 

Oh,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 

And  high  and  low  mate  ill;  yc 

But  love  has  never  known  a  law 
Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 

1862. 


THE   WAITING 

I  WAIT  and  watch:  before  my  eyes 

Methinks  the  night  grows  thin  and  gray; 

I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 

To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day  ! 

Like     one    whose    limbs     are     beund    in 
trance 

I  hear  the  day-sounds  swell  and  grow, 
And  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after  troop,  in  swift  advance, 

The  shining  ones  with  plumes  of  snow  !  10 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 

I  know  what  mighty  work  is  theirs; 
I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet 
The  threshing-floors  of  God  to  beat, 

And  speed  them  with  unworthy  prayers 

I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair 
The  steps  of  progress  wait  for  me: 


3o6 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 
The  planet's  impulse  well  may  spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea.  20 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine, 
And  yet  not  mine  if  understood; 
For  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign, 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its  wine, 
And  God  shall  make  the  balance  good. 

Oh  power  to  do  !   Oh  baffled  will ! 

Oh  prayer  and  action  !  ye  are  one. 
Who  may  not  strive,  may  yet  fulfil 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still,  29 

And  good  but  wished  with  God  is  done ! 
1862. * 

THE   WATCHERS 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood  ; 
On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  wood, 
Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland         10 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

'  How    long  ! '  —  I    knew    the    voice    of 

Peace,  — 

'  Is  there  no  respite  ?  no  release  ? 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease  ? 

'  O  Lord,  how  long  !    One  human  soul 

Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll,  20 

Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

'What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and 

brave  ? 

How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 

i  The  physical  limitations  which  made  it  impossible 
for  Whittier  to  take  an  active  part  in  public  affairs 
were  especially  hard  for  him  to  bear  during  these 
years.  Compare  Milton's  Sonnet  '  On  his  Blindness.' 


'  O  brother  !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be, 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me.' 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said  :  « I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won.  y 

'  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

'  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 

'  But  now,  through  weary  day  and  night, 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 

'  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own  :  40 

One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly  throne, 
And  one  through  fear  to  reverence  grown. 

'  Why  wait  we  longer,  mocked,  betrayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 

To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid  ? 

« Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ? 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl.' 

'Nay,'  Peace  implored:  'yet  longer  wait; 
The  doom  is  near,  the  stake  is  great:         5 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

'  Still  wait  and  watch;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare.' 

'  Too  late  ! '  the  stern,  sad  voice  replied, 
'  Too  late  ! '  its  mournful  echo  sighed. 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 

An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 

So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight.        60 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

'Still  hope  and  trust,'  it  sang;  'the  rod 
Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  ! '  1862. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


3°7 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER* 

ANDREW  RYKMAN  's  dead  and  gone ; 

You  can  see  his  leaning  slate 
In  the  graveyard,  and  thereon 

Read  his  name  and  date. 

'  Trust  is  truer  than  our  fears,' 

Runs  the  legend  through  the  moss, 

'  Gain  is  not  in  added  years, 
Nor  in  death  is  loss.' 

Still  the  feet  that  thither  trod, 

All  the  friendly  eyes  are  dim;  « 

Only  Nature,  now,  and  God 
Have  a  care  for  him. 

There  the  dews  of  quiet  fall, 

Singing  birds  and  soft  winds  stray: 

Shall  the  tender  Heart  of  all 
Be  less  kind  than  they  ? 

What  he  was  and  what  he  is 
They  who  ask  may  haply  find, 

If  they  read  this  prayer  of  his 

Which  he  left  behind.  x 


Pardon,  Lord,  the  lips  that  dare 

Shape  in  words  a  mortal's  prayer  ! 

Prayer,  that,  when  my  day  is  done, 

And  I  see  its  setting  sun, 

Shorn  and  beamless,  cold  and  dim, 

Sink  beneath  the  horizon's  rim,  — 

When'  this  ball  of  rock  and  clay 

Crumbles  from  my  feet  away, 

And  the  solid  shores  of  sense 

Melt  into  the  vague  immense,  3o 

Father  !  I  may  come  to  Thee 

Even  with  the  beggar's  plea, 

As  the  poorest  of  thy  poor, 

With  my  needs,  and  nothing  more. 

Not  as  one  who  seeks  his  home 

With  a  step  assured  I  come ; 

Still  behind  the  tread  I  hear 

Of  my  life-companion,  Fear; 

Still  a  shadow  deep  and  vast 

From  my  westering  feet  is  cast,  4o 

1  In  June,  1862,  Whittier  wrote  to  Fields,  then  edi- 
tor of  the  Atlantic  :  '  I  have  by  me  a  poem  upon  which 
I  have  bestowed  much  thought,  and  which  I  think  is  in 
some  respects  the  best  thing  I  have  ever  written.  I  will 
bring  it  or  send  it  soon.'  This  poem  was  '  Andrew  Ryk- 
man's  Prayer.' 


Wavering,  doubtful,  undefined, 
Never  shapeu  nor  outlined: 
From  myself  the  fear  has  grown, 
And  the  shadow  is  my  own. 
Yet,  O  Lord,  through  all  a  sense 
Of  thy  tender  providence 
Stays  my  failing  heart  on  Thee, 
And  confirms  the  feeble  knee; 
And,  at  times,  my  worn  feet  press 
Spaces  of  cool  quietness,  jc 

Lilied  whiteness  shone  upon 
Not  by  light  of  moon  or  sun. 
Hours  there  be  of  inmost  c^alm, 
Broken  but  by  grateful  psalm, 
When  I  love  Thee  more  than  fear  Thee, 
And  thy  blessed  Christ  seems  near  me, 
With  forgiving  look,  as  when 
He  beheld  the  Magdalen. 
Well  I  know  that  all  things  move 
To  the  spheral  rhythm  of  love,  —          60 
That  to  Thee,  O  Lord  of  all ! 
Nothing  can  of  chance  befall: 
Child  and  seraph,  mote  and  star, 
Well  Thou  knowest  what  we  are  ! 
Through  thy  vast  creative  plan 
Looking,  from  the  worm  to  man,. 
There  is  pity  in  thine  eyes, 
But  no  hatred  nor  surprise. 
Not  in  blind  caprice  of  will, 
Not  in  cunning  sleight  of  skill,  70 

Not  for  show  of  power,  was  wrought 
Nature's  marvel  in  thy  thought. 
Never  careless  hand  and  vain 
Smites  these  chords  of  joy  and  pain; 
No  immortal  selfishness 
Plays  the  game  of  curse  and  bless: 
Heaven  and  earth  are  witnesses 
That  thy  glory  goodness  is. 
Not  for  sport  of  mind  and  force 
Hast  Thou  made  thy  universe,  80 

But  as  atmosphere  and  zone 
•Of  thy  loving  heart  alone. 
Man,  who  walketh  in  a  show, 
Sees  before  him,  to  and  fro, 
Shadow  and  illusion  go; 
All  things  flow  and  fluctuate, 
Now  contract  and  now  dilate. 
In  the  welter  of  this  sea, 
Nothing  stable  is  but  Thee; 
In  this  whirl  of  swooning  trance,  go 

Thou  alone  art  permanence; 
All  without  Thee  only  seems, 
All  beside  is  choice  of  dreams. 
Never  yet  in  darkest  mood 
Doubted  I  that  Thou  wast  good, 


3°8 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Nor  mistook  my  will  for  fate, 
Pain  of  sin  for  heavenly  hate,  — 
Never  dreamed  the  gates  of  pearl 
Rise  from  out  the  burning  marl, 
Or  that  good  can  only  live  100 

Of  the  bad  conservative, 
And  through  counterpoise  of  hell 
Heaven  alone  be  possible. 

For  myself  alone  I  doubt; 

All  is  well,  I  know,  without; 

I  alone  the  beauty  mar, 

I  alone  the  music  jar. 

Yet,  with  hands  by  evil  stained, 

And  an  ear  by  discord  pained, 

I  am  groping  for  the  keys  1 10 

Of  the  heavenly  harmonies; 

Still  within  my  heart  I  bear 

Love  for  all  things  good  and  fair. 

Hands  of  want  or  souls  in  pain 

Have  not  sought  my  door  in  vain; 

I  have  kept  my  fealty  good 

To  the  human  brotherhood; 

Scarcely  have  I  asked  in  prayer 

That  which  others  might  not  share. 

I,  who  hear  with  secret  shame  120 

Praise  that  paineth  more  than  blame, 

Rich  alone  in  favors  lent, 

Virtuous  by  accident, 

Doubtful  where  I  fain  would  rest, 

Frailest  where  I  seem  the  best, 

Only  strong  for  lack  of  test,  — 

What  am  I,  that  I  should  press 

Special  pleas  of  selfishness, 

Coolly  mounting  into  heaven 

On  my  neighbor  unforgiven  ?  130 

Ne'er  to  me,  howe'er  disguised, 

Comes  a  saint  unrecognized; 

Never  fails  my  heart  to  greet 

Noble  deed  with  warmer  beat; 

Halt  and  maimed,  I  own  not  less 

All  the  grace  of  holiness; 

Nor,  through  shame  or  self-distrust, 

Less  I  love  the  pure  and  just. 

Lord,  forgive  these  words  of  mine: 

What  have  I  that  is  not  Thine  ?        .40 

Whatsoe'er  I  fain  would  boast 

Needs  thy  pitying  pardon  most. 

Thou,  O  Elder  Brother  !  who 

In  thy  flesh  our  trial  knew, 

Thou,  who  hast  been  touched  by  these 

Our  most  sad  infirmities, 

Thou  alone  the  gulf  canst  span 

In  the  dual  heart  of  man, 

And  between  the  soul  and  sense 


Reconcile  all  difference,  iSo 

Change  the  dream  of  me  and  mine 
For  the  truth  of  Thee  and  thine, 
And,  through  chaos,  doubt,  and  strife. 
Interfuse  thy  calm  of  life. 
Haply,  thus  by  Thee  renewed, 
In  thy  borrowed  goodness  good, 
Some  sweet  morning  yet  in  God's 
Dim,  seonian  periods, 
Joyful  I  shall  wake  to  see 
Those  I  love  who  rest  in  Thee  160 

And  to  them  in  Thee  allied, 
Shall  my  soul  be  satisfied. 

Scarcely  Hope  hath  shaped  for  me 

What  the  future  life  may  be. 

Other  lips  may  well  be  bold; 

Like  the  publican  of  old, 

I  can  only  urge  the  plea, 

'  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me  ! ' 

Nothing  of  desert  I  claim, 

Unto  me  belongeth  shame.  t70 

Not  for  me  the  crowns  of  gold, 

Palms,  and  harpings  manifold; 

Not  for  erring  eye  and  feet 

Jasper  wall  and  golden  street. 

What  Thou  wilt,  O  Father,  give  ! 

All  is  gain  that  I  receive. 

If  my  voice  I  may  not  raise 

In  the  elders'  song  of  praise, 

If  I  may  not,  sin-defiled, 

Claim  my  birthright  as  a  child,         180 

Suffer  it  that  I  to  Thee 

As  an  hired  servant  be; 

Let  the  lowliest  task  be  mine, 

Grateful,  so  the  work  be  thine; 

Let  me  find  the  humblest  place 

In  the  shadow  of  thy  grace: 

Blest  to  me  were  any  spot 

Where  temptation  whispers  not. 

If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 

Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on;     190 

If  a  blinder  soul  there  be, 

Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 

Make  my  mortal  dreams  come  true 

With  the  work  I  fain  would  do; 

Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 

Let  me  be  the  thing  I  meant; 

Let  me  find  in  thy  employ 

Peace  that  dearer  is  than  joy; 

Out  of  self  to  love  be  led 

And  to  heaven  acclimated,  200 

Until  all  things  sweet  and  good 

Seem  my  natural  habitude. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


3°9 


So  we  read  the  prayer  of  him 
Who,  with  John  of  Labadie, 

Trod,  of  old,  the  oozy  rim 
Of  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

Thus  did  Andrew  Rykman  pray. 

Are  we  wiser,  better  grown, 
That  we  may  not,  in  our  day, 

Make  his  prayer  our  own  ?  210 

1862.  1803. 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE1 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched   over    the    mountain- 
.  wall; 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down;  2o 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

1  On  the  authenticity  of  the  story  see  Pickard's  Life 
of  Whittier,  vol.  ii,  pp.  454-459. 


'  Halt ! '  —  the   dust-brown  ranks   stood 

fast. 
1  Fire  ! '  —  out  bkzed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash.     : 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

'  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But     spare    your    country's    flag,'    she 
said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To    life    at    that    woman's    deed    and 


'  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !  March  on  !  '  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet: 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietcbie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the    Rebel   rides  on    his   raids   no 


Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietcbie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave  ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 

On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  !     60 

1863.  •  1863 


3io 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


THE  WRECK  OF   RIVERMOUTH l 

RIVERMOUTH  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 

By  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across, 
When   the  ebb   of   the  sea  has  left  them 

free 

To  dry  their  fringes  of  gold-green  moss: 
For  there  the  river  comes  winding  down, 
From  salt  sea-meadows  and  uplands  brown, 
And  waves  on  the  outer  rocks  afoam 
Shont  to  its  waters,  '  Welcome  home  ! ' 

And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 

East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar,     10 

And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er; 

And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 

'Twixt   white     sea-waves     and     sand-hills 
brown, 

The  beach-birds  dance  and  the  gray  gulls 
wheel 

Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel. 

Once,  in  the  old  Colonial  days, 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 
A  boat  sailed  down  through  the   winding 

ways 

Of  Hampton  River  to  that  low  shore,   20 
Full  of  a  goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea, 
Veering  to  catch  the  land-breeze  light, 
With  the   Boar  to  left  and  the  Rocks  to 

right. 

In  Hampton  meadows,  where  mowers  laid 
Their   scythes   to   the  swaths  of  salted 

grass, 

'  Ah,  well-a-day  !  our  hay  must  be  made  ! ' 
A  young  man  sighed,  who  saw  them  pass. 
Loud  laughed  his  fellows  to  see  him  stand 
Whetting  his  scythe  with  a  listless  hand,  3o 
Hearing  a  voice  in  a  far-off  song, 
Watching  a  white  hand  beckoning  long. 

1  The  Goody  Cole  who  figures  in  this  poem  and  '  The 
Changeling '  was  Eunice  Cole,  who  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century  or  more  was  feared,  persecuted,  and  hated  as 
the  witch  of  Hampton.  She  lived  alone  in  a  hovel  a 
little  distant  from  the  spot  where  the  Hampton  Acad- 
emy now  stands,  and  there  she  died,  unattended.  When 
her  death  was  discovered,  she  was  hastily  covered  up  in 
the  earth  near  by,  and  a  stake  driven  through  her  bod}', 
to  exorcise  the  evil  spirit.  Rev.  Stephen  Bachiler  or 
Batchelder  was  one  of  the  ablest  of  the  early  New  Eng- 
land preachers.  His  marriage  late  in  life  to  a  woman 
regarded  by  his  church  as  disreputable  induced  him 
to  return  to  England,  where  he  enjoyed  the  esteem 
and  favor  of  Oliver  Cromwell  during  the  Protectorate. 
(WHTTTIBB.) 

See  also  Pickard's  Whittier-Land,  pp.  88-89. 


'  Fie  on  the  witch  ! '  cried  a  merry  girl, 
As  they  rounded  the  point  where  Goody 

Cole 

Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel  atwirl, 
A  bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old  soul. 
'  Oho  ! '   she   muttered,   '  ye  're   brave   to- 

day! 

But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and  say, 
"The    broth   will   be    cold    that  waits  at 

home; 
For  it 's  one  to  go,  but  another  to  come  !  "  ' 

'  She  's   cursed,'  said  the  skipper  ;    •  speak 
her  fair:  4i 

I  'm  scary  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild  gray  hair, 
And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes  like  a 

snake.' 

But  merrily  still,  with  laugh  and  shout, 
From  Hampton  River  the  boat  sailed  out, 
Till  the  huts  and  the  flakes  on  Star  seemed 

nigh, 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines  of  Rye. 

They  dropped  their  lines  in  the  lazy  tide, 
Drawing  up  haddock  and  mottled  cod;  50 

They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that  walked  be- 
side, 
They  heard  not  the  feet  with  silence  shod. 

But  thicker  and  thicker  a  hot  mist  grew, 

Shot  by  the  lightnings  through  and  through ; 

And  muffled  growls,  like  the  growl  of  a 
beast, 

Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 

Then  the  skipper  looked  from  the  darken- 
ing sea 

Up  to  the  dimmed  and  wading  sun; 
But  he  spake  like  a  brave  man  cheerily, 

'Yet   there  is  time   for   our   homeward 
run.'  60 

Veering  and  tacking,  they  backward  wore ; 
And  just  as  a  breath  from  the  woods  ashore 
Blew  out  to  whisper  of  danger  past, 
The  wrath  of  the  storm  came  down  at  kst  ! 

The  skipper  hauled  at  the  heavy  sail: 

'  God  be  our  help  ! '  he  only  cried, 
As  the  roaring  gale,  like  the  stroke  of  a 

flail, 

Smote  the  boat  on  its  starboard  side. 
The  Shoalsmen  looked,  but  saw  alone 
Dark  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise  blown,  70 
Wild  rocks  lit  up  by  the  lightning's  glare, 
The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and  air. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


Goody  Cole  looked  out  from  her  door: 
The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned  and 

gone, 
Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the  Boar 

Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 
She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  grip  of  pain, 
The  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of  rain: 
'  They  are   lost,'  she  muttered,  '  boat  and 

crew  ! 
Lord,  forgive  me  !  my  words  were  true  ! '  80 

Suddenly  seaward  swept  the  squall; 

The  low  sun  smote  through  cloudy  rack; 
The  Shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light,  and  all 

The  trend  of  the  coast  lay  hard  and  black. 
But  far  and  wide  as  eye  could  reach, 
No  life  was  seen  upon  wave  or  beach; 
The  boat  that  went  out  at  morning  never 
Sailed  back  again  into  Hampton  River. 

O  mower,  lean  on  thy  bended  snath, 

Look  from  the  meadows  green  and  low :  90 
The  wind  of  the  sea  is  a  waft  of  death, 

The  waves  are  singing  a  song  of  woe  ! 
By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea, 
Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching  be: 
Never  again  shall  the  sweet  voice  call, 
Never  the  white  hand  rise  and  fall ! 

O  Rivermouth  Rocks,  how  sad  a  sight 

Ye  saw  in  the  light  of  breaking  day  ! 
Dead  faces  looking  up  cold  and  white 

From  sand  and  seaweed  where  they  lay. 
The  mad  old  witch-wife  wailed  and  wept,  101 
And  cursed  the  tide  as  it  backward  crept: 
'  Crawl  back,  crawl  back,  blue  water-snake  ! 
Leave  your  dead  for  the  hearts  that  break  ! ' 

Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  day 

In  Hampton  town  and  its  log-built  church, 
Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  lay 

And    the   mourners  stood    in   aisle  and 

porch. 

In  the  singing-seats  young  eyes  were  dim, 
The  voices  faltered  that  raised  the  hymn,  no 
And  Father  Dalton,  grave  and  stern, 
Sobbed  through  his  prayer  and  wept  in  turn. 

But  his  ancient  colleague  did  not  pray; 

Under  the  weight  of  his  fourscore  years 
He  stood  apart  with  the  iron-gray 

Of  his  strong  brows  knitted  to  hide  his 

tears; 

And  a  fair-faced  woman  of  doubtful  fame, 
Linking  her  own  with  his  honored  name, 


Subtle  as  sin,  at  his  side  withstood 

The  felt  reproach  of  her  neighborhood.    IM 

Apart  with  them,  like  them  forbid, 

Old  Goody  Cole  looked  drearily  round, 
As,  two  by  two,  with  their  faces  hid, 

The   mourners  walked  to  the   burying- 

ground. 
She  let  the  staff  from  her  clasped  hands 

fall: 

'  Lord,  forgive  us  !  we  're  sinners  all ! ' 
And  the  voice  of   the  old  man  answered 

her: 
'  Amen  ! '  said  Father  Bachiler. 

So,  as  I  sat  upon  Appledore 

In  the  calm  of  a  closing  summer  day,  130 
And  the  broken  lines  of  Hampton  shore 

In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay, 
The  Rivermouth  Rocks  their  story  told; 
And  waves  aglow  with  sunset  gold, 
Rising  and  breaking  in  steady  chime, 
Beat  the  rhythm  and  kept  the  time. 

And  the   sunset   paled,  and  warmed  once 


With  a  softer,  tenderer  after-glow; 
In  the  east  was  moon-rise,  with  boats  off- 
shore 

And  sails  in  the  distance  drifting  slow.  140 
The  beacon  glimmered   from  Portsmouth 

bar, 

The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great  red  star; 
And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 
Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night  and  day  ! 

1864. 


THE  VANISHERS  » 

SWEETEST  of  all  childlike  dreams 

In  the  simple  Indian  lore 
Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 

Of  the  shapes  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone, 

Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 
Baffling  search,  but  beckoning  on 

To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest, 
i  Whittier  wrote  to  Fields,  September  27,  18G4 :  '  I 
take  the  liberty  of  inclosing  a  little  poem  of  mine  which 
has  beguiled  some  weary  hours.  I  hope  thee  will  like 
it.  How  strange  it  seems  not  to  read  it  to  my  sister ! 
If  thee  have  read  Schoolcraft  thee  will  remember 
what  he  says  of  the  Puck-wud-jinnies,  or  "Little  Van- 
ishers."  The  legend  is  very  beautiful,  and  I  hope  I 
have  done  it  justice  in  some  sort.' 


3I2 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks, 
Through  the  dark  of  lowland  firs,      10 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers  ! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff,  , 

And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 

Hear  their  call  from  cape  and  cliff, 
See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  toss. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 

In  their  faces  rarely  seen 

Beauty  more  than  mortal  shines.        20 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantles  flow 
On  the  slopes  of  westering  knolls; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

Doubt  who  may,  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too ; 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide,  and  we  pursue. 

More  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 

In  the  gold  of  setting  day ;  30 

More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail 
Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth, 

Gleams  and  glories  seen  and  flown, 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth, 
Airs  from  viewless  Eden  blown; 

Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 

Sweetness  that  transcends  our  taste, 

Loving  hands  we  may  not  clasp, 

Shining  feet  that  mock  our  haste ;      40 

Gentle  eyes  we  closed  below, 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more, 

Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,  still  before. 

Guided  thus,  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Let  us  walk  our  little  way, 
Knowing  by  each  beckoning  sign 

That  we  are  not  quite  astray. 

Chase  we  still,  with  baffled  feet, 

Smiling  eye  and  waving  hand,  50 

Sought  and  seeker  soon  shall  meet, 
Lost  and  found,  in  Sunset  Land  ! 
1S64.  1864. 


BRYANT   ON    HIS  BIRTHDAY » 

WE  praise  not  now  the  poet's  art, 
The  rounded  beauty  of  his  song; 

Who  weighs  him  from  his  life  apart 
Must  do  his  nobler  nature  wrong. 

Not  for  the  eye,  familiar  grown 

With  charms  to  common  sight  denied,  — 
The  marvellous  gift  he  shares  alone 

With  him  who  walked  on  Rydal-side; 

Not  for  rapt  hymn  nor  woodland  lay, 
Too  grave  for  smiles,  too  sweet  for  tears; 

We  speak  his  praise  who  wears  to-day 
The  glory  of  his  seventy  years. 

When  Peace  brings  Freedom  in  her  train, 
Let  happy  lips  his  songs  rehearse; 

His  life  is  now  his  noblest  strain, 
His  manhood  better  than  his  verse  ! 

Thank  God  !  his  hand  on  Nature's  keys 
Its  cunning  keeps  at  life's  full  span; 

But,  dimmed  and  dwarfed,  in  times  like 

these, 
The  poet  seems  beside  the  man  ! 

So  be  it !  let  the  garlands  die, 

The  singer's  wreath,  the  painter's  meed, 
Let  our  names  perish,  if  thereby 

Our  country  may  be  saved  and  freed  ! 
1864.  18(J5. 


.  LAUS    DEO!a 

IT  is  done  ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town ! 

1  Written  for  the  celebration  of  Bryant's  seventieth 
birthday  at  the  Century  Club  in  New  York. 

2  On  hearing  the  bells  ring  on  the  passage  of  the 
constitutional    amendment   abolishing    slavery.      The 
resolution  was  adopted  by  Congress,  January  31,  1865. 
The  ratification  by  the  requisite  number  of  States  was 
announced  December  18,  18C5.     (WHITTIEE.) 

The  suggestion  came  to  the  poet  as  he  sat  in  the 
Friends'  Meeting-house  in  Amesbury,  where  he  was 
present  at  the  regular  Fifth-day  meeting.  All  sat  in 
silence,  but  on  his  return  to  his  home,  he  recited  a  por- 
tion of  the  poem,  not  yet  committed  to  paper,  to  his 
housemates  in  the  garden  room.  '  It  wrote  itself,  or 
rather  sang  itself,  while  the  bells  rang,'  he  wrote  to 
Lucy  Larcom.  (Cambridge  Edition  of  Whittier.)  Se» 
also  Pickard's  Life  of  Whittier,  vol.  ii,  pp.  488-489. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHLTTIER 


Ring,  O  bells ! 
Every  stroke  exulting  tells 

Of  the  burial  bour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 
Ring  for  every  listening  ear 

Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel: 
God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound  ! 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad; 
In  the  earthquake  He  has  spoken; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 
Lift  the  old  exulting  song; 

Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea, 
He  has  cast  the  mighty  down; 
Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown; 

'  He  hath  triumphed  gloriously  ! ' 

Did  we  dare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done  ? 

When  was  ever  his  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  ? 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  ! 

Blotted  out ! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
On  the  dead  and  buried  sin ! 

It  is  done  ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 


Ring  and  swing, 

Bells  of  joy  !     On  morning's  wing 
Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 
Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God  !  60 

1865.  1865. 

HYMN 

FOR   THE    CELEBRATION    OF    EMANCIPA- 
TION   AT   NEWBURYPORT 

NOT  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 

The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak, 

Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 

The  triumph  and  exultant  song. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail  and  few, 
The  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  our  life  a  fight  became, 
The  air  we  breathed  was  hot  with  blame;  10 
For  not  with  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We  made  the  bondman's  cause  our  own. 

We  bore,  as  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, 
The  private  hate,  the  public  scorn; 
Yet  held  through  all  the  paths  we  trod 
Our  faith  in  man  and  trust  in  God. 

We  prayed  and  hoped ;  but  still,  with  awe, 
The  coming  of  the  sword  we  saw; 
We  heard  the  nearing  steps  of  doom, 
We  saw  the  shade  of  things  to  come.         2o 

In  grief  which  they  alone  can  feel 
Who  from  a  mother's  wrong  appeal, 
With  blended  lines  of  fear  and  hope 
We  cast  our  country's  horoscope. 

For  still  within  her  house  of  life 
We  marked  the  lurid  sign  of  strife, 
And,  poisoning  and  imbittering  all, 
We  saw  the  star  of  Wormwood  fall. 

Deep  as  our  love  for  her  became 
Our  hate  of  all  that  wrought  her  shame,  3* 
And  if,  thereby,  with  tongue  and  pen 
We  erred,  —  we  were  but  mortal  men. 

We  hoped  for  peace ;  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day: 


314 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain; 
'T  is  shorn  by  battle's  axe  in  twain  ! 

Nor  skill  nor  strength  nor  zeal  of  ours 
Has  mined  and  heaved  the  hostile  towers; 
Not  by  our  hands  is  turned  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captives  free.  40 

A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  for  the  slave; 
A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light; 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night ! 

The  praise,  O  Lord  !  is  thine  alone, 

In  thy  own  way  thy  work  is  done  ! 

Our  poor  gifts  at  thy  feet  we  cast, 

To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last  ! 

1865.  1865. 


THE    ETERNAL  GOODNESS 

0  FRIENDS  !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 
The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 

Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  love  of  man  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument; 
Your  logic  linked  and  strong 

I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 
And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds:  10 

Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 
My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought  ? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan  ? 
The  Lord  is  God  !    He  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 

Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod; 
I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 

The  love  and  power  of  God.  20 

Ye  praise  his  justice;  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem: 
Ye  seek  a  king;  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 


More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  with- 
in 

Myself,  alas  !  I  know: 
Too  dark  ye  cannot  paint  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show. 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 

I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame, 
And  urge,  in  trembling  self -distrust, 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin. 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 

To  one  fixed  trust  my  spirit  clings; 
I  know  that  God  is  good  ! 

Not  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see, 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above, 
I  know  not  of  his  hate,  —  I  know 

His  goodness  and  his  love. 

I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 

For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 
But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 

And  He  can  do  no  wrong.  i 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 

Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove;  ; 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 

And  plead  his  love  for  love. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  his  islands  lift 
Their  fronded  palms  in  air; 

I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  his  love  and  care.  80 


O  brothers  !  if  my  faith  is  vain, 

If  hopes  like  these  betray, 
Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 

The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  Thou,  O  Lord  !  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee  ! 

1865? 


SNOW-BOUND 

A    WINTER    IDYL 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD   IT    DESCRIBES 


THIS    POEM    IS   DEDICATED   BY   THE   AUTHOR 


As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the  dark, 
go  Good  Spirits,  which  be  Angels  of  Light,  are  aug- 
mented not  only  by  the  Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but 
also  by  our  common  Wood  Fire:  and  as  the  Celestial 
Fire  drives  away  dark  spirits,  so  also  this  our  Fire  of 
Wood  doth  the  same.  —  COB.  AOEIPPA,  Occult  Philo- 
sophy, Book  I.  ch.  v. 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

EMKBSON.     The  Snow  Storm. 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

i  The  inmates  of  the  family  at  the  Whittier  home- 
stead who  are  referred  to  in  the  poem  were  my  father, 
mother,  my  brother  and  two  sisters,  and  my  uncle  and 
aunt,  both  unmarried.  In  addition,  there  was  the  dis- 
trict school-master,  who  boarded  with  us.  The  '  not 
unfeared,  half-welcome  guest '  was  Harriet  Livermore, 
daughter  of  Judge  Livermore,  of  New  Hampshire,  a 
young  woman  of  fine  natural  ability,  enthusiastic,  ec- 
centric, with  slight  control  over  her  violent  temper, 
which  sometimes  made  her  religious  profession  doubt- 
ful. She  was  equally  ready  to  exhort  in  school-house 
prayer-meetings  and  dance  in  a  Washington  ball-room, 
while  her  father  was  a  member  of  Congress.  She  early 
embraced  the  doctrine  of  the  Second  Advent,  and  felt 
it  her  duty  to  proclaim  the  Lord's  speedy  coming. 
With  this  message  she  crossed  the  Atlantic  and  spent 
the  greater  part  of  a  long  life  in  travelling  over  Europe 
and  Asia.  She  lived  some  time  with  Lady  Hester  Stan- 
hope, a  woman  as  fantastic  and  mentally  strained  as 
herself,  on  the  slope  of  Mt.  Lebanon,  but  finally  quar- 
relled with  her  in  regard  to  two  white  horses  with  red 
marks  on  their  backs  which  suggested  the  idea  of  sad- 
dles, on  which  her  titled  hostess  expected  to  ride  into 


Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 
Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 
A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 
It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

Jerusalem  with  the  Lord.  A  friend  of  mine  found  her, 
when  quite  an  old  woman,  wandering  in  Syria  with  a 
tribe  of  Arabs,  who  with  the  Oriental  notion  that  mad- 
ness is  inspiration,  accepted  her  as  their  prophetess 
and  leader.  At  the  time  referred  to  in  '  Snow-Bound  ' 
she  was  boarding  at  the  Rocks  Village,  about  two  miles 
from  us. 

In  my  boyhood,  in  our  lonely  farm-house,  we  had 
scanty  sources  of  information;  few  books  and  only  a 
small  weekly  newspaper.  Our  only  annual  was  the 
Almanac.  Under  such  circumstances  story-telling  was 
a  necessary  resource  in  the  long  winter  evenings.  My 
father  when  a  young  man  had  traversed  the  wilderness 
to  Canada,  and  could  tell  us  of  his  adventures  with  In- 
dians and  wild  beasts,  and  of  his  sojourn  in  the  French 
villages.  My  uncle  was  ready  with  his  record  of  hunt- 
ing and  fishing  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  with  stories, 
which  he  at  least  half  believed,  of  witchcraft  and  ap- 
paritions. My  mother,  who  was  born  in  the  Indian- 
haunted  region  of  Somersworth,  New  Hampshire,  be- 
tween Dover  and  Portsmouth,  told  us  of  the  inroads  of 
the  savages,  and  the  narrow  escape  of  her  ancestors. 
She  described  strange  people  who  lived  oa  the  Piscat- 
aqua  and  Cocheoo,  among  whom  was  Bantam  the  sor- 
cerer. I  have  in  my  possession  the  wizard's  '  conjuring 
book,'  which  he  solemnly  opened  when  consulted.  It 
is  a  copy  of  Cornelius  Agrippa's  Magic,  printed  in  1651, 
dedicated  to  Dr.  Robert  Child,  who,  like  Michael  Scott, 
had  learned 


and  who  is  famous  in  the  annals  of  Massachusetts, 
where  he  was  at  one  time  a  resident,  as  the  first  man 
who  dared  petition  the  General  Court  for  liberty  of 
conscience.  The  full  title  of  the  book  is  Three  Books 
of  Occult  Philosophy,  by  Henry  Cornelius  Agrippa, 
Knight,  Doctor  of  both  Laws,  Counsellor  to  Caesar's 
Sacred  Majesty  and  Judge  of  Prerogative  Court. 
(WHITTIER.) 

See  also  Pickard's  Life  of  Whittier,  vol.  i,  pp.  27-36, 
and  vol.  ii,  pp.  494-500;  and  Whittier-Land,  pp.  12,  24, 
39,  74. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out,    10 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 

Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east;  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores,  — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors,    20 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows: 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent.    30 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 
The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 
A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 
And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 
As  zigzag,  wavering  to  and  fro, 
Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow: 
And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 
The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 
And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 
Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts.      40 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on: 

The  morning  broke  without  a  sun; 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent  50 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took   marvellous   shapes;   strange   domes 

and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 
Or  garden- wall,  or  belt  of  wood ; 
A   smooth   white    mound   the  brush  -  pile 

showed, 


A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road; 
The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat  60 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat; 
The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 
And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 
In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted:  '  Boys,  a  path  ! ' 
Well  pleased  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 

I  Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  ?) 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew;  7o 

With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low, 

;  To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 

j  We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 

|  And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal:  we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers.  So 

We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep,     90 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 

The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before; 

Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 

The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone. 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 

To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 

Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 

A  solitude  made  more  intense  100 

By  dreary- voiced  elements, 

The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 

The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 

And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 

Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 

No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 

Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 

Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 

We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear  no 

The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WH1TTIER 


The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 
Had  been  to  us  companionship, 
And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 
To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack     120 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room  130 

Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom; 
While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 
And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free. 
The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 
The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed; 
While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 
Whispered  the  old  rhyme:  '  Under  the  tree. 
When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily,  141 

There  the  witches  are  making  tea.' 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 
Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 
Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back.         150 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 

We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 

Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 

In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 

While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 

The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat;        160 

And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 

Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 

The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 


The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed; 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet,     170 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  hi  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ? 
What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved  ? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 
O  Time  and  Change  !  —  with  hair  as  gray 
As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day,  180 

How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 
Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on  ! 
Ah,  brother  !  only  I  and  thou  ; 
Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now,  — 
The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 
That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 
Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 
The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still; 
Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o'er 
Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more.  190 

We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn, 

We  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 

We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 
And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn; 
We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read, 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er, 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 

No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor  ! 
Yet  Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will  trust  200 
(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just) 
That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must, 
Alas  for  him  who  never  sees       •• 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees  ! 
Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play  ! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death,  2.0 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  ! 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 
Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 

i  Whittier's  only  brother,  Matthew,  was  born  in  181J 
and  died  in  1883.  See  Kckard's  Life  of  Whittier,  voL  i- 
pp.  31-32. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Or  stammered  from  our  school-book  lore 

'  The  Chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore.' 1 

How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 

Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 

As  if  a  far-blown  trumpet  stirred 

The  languorous  sin-sick  air,  I  heard: 

'  Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry,  220 

Claim  the  first  right  which  Nature  gave, 
From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly , 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave  !  ' 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side; 
Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp; 
Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
Beneath  St.  Francois'  hemlock-trees; 
Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone  230 

On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone; 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
Which  led  the  village  dance  away. 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 
The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl. 
Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee ; 
Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 
Swept,    scythe    on    scythe,    their    swaths 
along  240 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 

And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 

The  hake-broil  on  the  drift-wood  coals; 
The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made, 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot 
With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 
We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old, 
And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 
To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay  250 

Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 
Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 
When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 
The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow 
And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars. 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 
At  midnight  on  Cocheco  town, 
And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore  260 

His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 

1  '  The  African  Chief '  was  the  title  of  a  poem  by 
Mrs.  Sarah  Wentworth  Morton,  wife  of  the  Hon.  Perez 
Morton,  a  former  attorney-general  of  Massachusetts. 
Mrs.  Morton's  nom  d?  plume  was  Philenia.  The  school- 
book  in  which  '  The  African  Chief  '  was  printed  was  Ca- 
leb Bingham's  The  American  Precfptor.  (WHITTIER.) 


Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 
So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free 
(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways), 
The  story  of  her  early  davs,  — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room; 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  con jur ing-book,       270 
The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country-side; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 
The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away; 
We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow  grew, 
What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay       Z8o 
The  ducks'  black  squadron  anchored  lay, 
And  heard  the  wild-geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 

Then,  haply,  with  a  look  more  grave, 
And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave 
From  painful  Sewel's  ancient  tome,  2 
Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 
Of  faith  fire-winged  by  martyrdom, 
Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and  quaint,3  — 
Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint !  —    290 
Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  prevailed, 
And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed, 

2  'Painful   Sewel's  ancient  tome'  ...  is  the  His- 
tory of  the,  Christian  People  called  Quakers,  by  William 
Sewel,  a  Dutchman  ...  He  died  about  1725.  ...  It 
was  originally  written  in  Low  Dutch,  and  translated 
into  English  by  Sewel  himself.  ...  It  is  devoted  mostly 
to  the  persecutions  of  the  Friends  in  Great  Britain  and 
in  America.     (Pickard's  Life  of  Whitlier.) 

3  Chalkley's  own  narrative  of  this  incident,  as  given 
in  his  Journal,  is  as  follows :  '  To  stop  their  murmuring, 
I  told  them  they  should  not  need  to  cast  lots,  which 
was  usual  in  such  cases,  which  of  us  should  die  first, 
for  I  would  freely  otter  up  my  life  to  do  them  good. 
One  said,  "  God  bless  you  !  I  will  not  eat  any  of  you." 
Another  said,  "  He  would  die  before  he  would  eat  any 
of  me,"  and  so  said  several.    I  can  truly  say,  on  that 
occasion,  at  that  time,  iny  life  was  not  dear  to  me,  and 
that  I  was  serious  and  ingenuous  in  my  proposition : 
and  as  I  was  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  thought- 
fully considering  my   proposal  to  the  company,  and 
looking  iii  my  mind  to  Him  that  made  me,  a  very  large 
dolphin  came  up  towards  the  top  or  surface  of  the 
water,  and  looked  me  in  the  face ;  and  I  called  the 
people  to  put  a  hook  into  the  sea,  and  take  him,  for 
here  is  one  come  to  redeem  me  (I  said  to  them).    And 
they  put  a  hook  into  the  sea,  and  the  fish  readily  took 
it  and  they  caught  him.    He  was  longer  than  myself. 
I  think  he  was  about  six  feet  long,  and  the  largest  that 
ever  I  saw.    This  plainly  showed  us  that  we  ought  not 
to  distrust  the  providence  of  the  Almighty.    The  people 
were  quieted  by  this  act  of  Providence,  and  murmured 
no  more.    We  caught  enough  to  eat  plentifully  of,  till 
we  got  into  the  capes  of  Delaware.'     (WHITTIER.) 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


3*9 


And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 

His  portly  presence  mad  for  food, 

With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath 

Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 

Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies, 

To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 

The  good  man  from  his  living  grave,       300 

A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 

A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view. 

•Take,  eat,'  he  said,  'and  be  content; 

These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 

By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram 

To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham.' 

Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 

Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks,1 

The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 

Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyccum.  310 

In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise, 

He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 

And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 

By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 

Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys 

To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries; 

Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 

That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 

Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old,  320 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes,  who  interpreted 

What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said; 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 

Content  to  live  where  life  began; 

Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 

Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 

The  common  features  magnified,  330 

As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 

In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view,  — • 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done, 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun; 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 

From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew,       340 

The  partridge  drummed  i'  the  wood,  the 

mink 
Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink; 

1  Compare  Emerson's  '  Wood-Notes.'  On  Whittier's 
uncle,  see  Pickard's  Life,  of  Whittier,  vol.  i,  pp.  32-33, 
and  Whittier's  Prose  Works,  vol.  i,  pp.  323-325,  '  The 
Fish  I  did  n't  Catch.' 


In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 
The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell; 
The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud- walls  laid; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell. 

Next,     the    dear    aunt,    whose*    smile    of 
cheer  350 

And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear  — 
The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 
Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 
Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness, 
And  welcome  whereso'er  she  went, 
A  calm  and  gracious  element, 
Whose    presence    seemed    the    sweet    in- 
come 

And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home  — 
Called  up  her  girlhood  memories,  36« 

The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 
The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 
Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 
And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 
A  golden  woof-thread  of  romance. 
For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 
And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood; 
Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 
The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way; 
The  morning  dew,  that  dries  so  soon        370 
With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon; 
Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 
From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 
All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 
The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart. 
Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 
Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  2  plied^ 

Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside; 

A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust,  380 

Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 

Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 

And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 

Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 

The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 

O  heart  sore-tried  !  thou  hast  the  best, 

That   Heaven    itself    could   give    thee, — 

rest, 

Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things  ! 
How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent   390 
Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings  ! 
z  Mary  Whittier,  1806-1860.  Pickard's  Life,  i,  29. 


320 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


As  one  who  held  herself  a  part l 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  in  the  unfading  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
Oh,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill,       4oo 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago:  — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 
I  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 
I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod  410 

Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 
Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad;  the  brier-rose  fills 
The  air  with  sweetness;  all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky; 
But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 
For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 
A  loss  in  all  familiar  things,  420 

In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 
And  yet,  dear  heart  !  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What   change    can  reach    the  wealth    I 
hold? 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 
Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 

Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows  grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon  43o 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand? 

Brisk  wielder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 
The  master  of  the  district  school 

1  On  Whittier's  sister  Elizabeth,  his  household  com- 
panion and  his  closest  friend  until  her  death,  in  1864, 
see  Pickard's  Life,  vol.  i,  pp.  29-31 ;  WMtier-Land, 
p.  74  ;  Whittier's  poems  '  To  My  Sister,'  and  '  The  Last 
Eve  of  Summer  ;'  and  her  own  poems,  in  the  Riverside 
and  Cambridge  Editions  of  Whittier's  Work*. 


Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place,  A4<t 

Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 
Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  appeared 
The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 
He  teased  the  mitten-blinded  cat, 
Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle's  hat, 
Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 
In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls. 
Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 
From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 
By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant,  450 

Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 
He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 
His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way; 
Could  doff  at  ease  his  scholar's  gown 
To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town; 
Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 
In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 
Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 
At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round, 
The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight,  460 

The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty  night, 
The  rustic-party,  with  its  rough 
Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff, 
And  whirling-plate,  and  forfeits  paid, 
His  winter  task  a  pastime  made. 
Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 
He  tuned  his  merry  violin, 
Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 
Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding-yarn, 
Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told  470 

Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 
Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and  Rome 
Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 
And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 
'Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods; 
Where  Pindus-born  Arachthus  took 
The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 
And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 
Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A  careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed;       48o 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed, 
And  hostage  from  the  future  took 
In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 
Large-brained,  clear-eyed,  of  such  as  he 
Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail, 
Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail; 
All  chains  tvom  limb  and  spirit  strike, 
Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike ;  490 

Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


321 


Which     nurtured     Treason's     monstrous 

growth, 

Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell 
Of  prison-torture  possible; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 
For  blind  routine,  wise-handed  skill;        5oo 
A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence ; 
Till  North  and  South  together  brought 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought, 
In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 
And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 
And  unresentful  rivalry, 
Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 

Another  guest  that  winter  night  J  510 

Flashed  back  from  lustrous  eyes  the  light. 

Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 

The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 

And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 

A  nature  passionate  and  bold, 

Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide, 

Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 

Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 

She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 

A  not  unfeared,  half-welcome  guest,        520 

Rebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase 

Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways. 

A  certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 

Swayed  the  lithe  limbs  and  dropped  the 

lash, 

Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling  flash; 
And  under  low  brows,  black  with  night, 
Rayed  out  at  times  a  dangerous  light;         . 
The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 
Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 
Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate.      530 
A  woman  tropical,  intense 
In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 
She  blended  in  a  like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 
Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint 
The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 
The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 
Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 
Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist; 

1  See  Whittier's  introductory  note  to  '  Snow-Bound.' 
He  wrote  to  Fields  in  sending  him  the  poem  :  '  The  por- 
trait of  that  ctrange  pilgrim,  Harriet  Livermore.  .  . 
who  used  to  visit  us,  is  as  near  the  life  as  I  can  give 
it.'  An  amusing  anecdote  of  how  Miss  Livermore 
found  and  read  this  characterization  of  herself  is  told 
in  Pickard's  Whittier-Land,  p.  31J. 


The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes       54o 
Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise. 
Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 
Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout; 
And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes  more  high 
And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry. 

Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 
Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 
What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 
Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock  ! 
Through  Smyrna's  plague-hushed  thorough- 
fares, 5So 
Up  sea-set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 
Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem 

Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 
Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 
The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon  2 
With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 
Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way; 
And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and  gray, 
She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 

With  hope  each  day  renewed  and  fresh, 
The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  flesh,  561 
Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies  ! 

Where'er  her  troubled  path  may  be, 
The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go  ! 

The  outward  wayward  life  we  see, 
The  hidden  springs  we  may  not  know. 

Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 

What  threads  the  fatal  sisters  spun, 
Through  what  ancestral  years  has  run 

The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born,  570 

What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of  moods, 

What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 

What  mingled  madness  in  the  blood, 
A  life-long  discord  and  annoy, 
Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy,    ,. 

And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 
Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 

It  is  not  ours  to  separate 

The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate,       580 

To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should 
stand 

Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 

And  between  choice  and  Providence 

Divide  the  circle  of  events ; 

But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just, 

Merciful  and  compassionate, 

And  full  of  sweet  assurances 

1  An  interesting  account  of  Lady  Hester  Stanhope 
may  be  found  in  Kinglake's  Eothen,  chap.  vili. 
(WHITTIER.) 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 
That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust ! 

At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling  low,      590 
Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 
The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view, 
Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 
Pointed  with  mutely  warning  sign 
Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine. 
That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke: 
My.  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 
Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray, 
And  laid  it  tenderly  away; 
Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover         600 
The  dull  red  brands  with  ashes  over. 
And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 
The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 
One  moment,  seeking  to  express 
Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness 
For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and  health, 
And  love's  contentment  more  than  wealth, 
With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 
Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek, 
But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart,      610 
O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 
That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 
For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth  and  light. 

Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 
The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared, 
With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 
Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock. 
We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost, 
The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost; 
And  on  us,  through  the  unplastered  wall, 
Felt  the  light  sifted  snow-flakes  fall.        621 
But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 
When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new; 
Faint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs  grew, 
Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams 
They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 
Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 
And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 
Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear ;  630 

And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 
To  break  the  drifted  highways  out. 
Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 
We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go, ' 
Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost, 
Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost. 
Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 
Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain. 
The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a-cold, 


Passed,  with  the  cider-mug,  their  jokes 
From  lip  to  lip;  the  younger  folks        641 
Down    the    loose    snow-banks,   wrestling, 

rolled, 
Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 

O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged  ravine, 
And  woodland  paths  that  wound  between 
Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter- weighed. 
From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 
At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 
Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest  law, 
Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw         650 
Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 
And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 
Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 
Against  the  snow-ball's  compliments, 
And  reading  in  each  missive  tost 
The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 

We  heard  once  more  the  sleigh-bells'  sound; 

And,  following  where  the  teamsters  led, 
The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 
Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say,  660 

In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 
Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 
At  night  our  mother's  aid  would  need. 
For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed, 

What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's  sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect  6-,*, 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity  ! 

So  days  went  on:  a  week  had  passed 

Since  the  great  world  was  heard  from  last 

The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er, 

Read  and  reread  cur  little  store 

Of  books  and  pamphlets,  scarce  a  score; 

One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 

From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid,  68p 

And  poetry  (or  good  or  bad, 

A  single  book  was  all  we  had), 

Where  Ellwood's  meek,  drab-skirted  Muse, 
A  stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 
Sang,  with  a  somewhat  nasal  whine, 

The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews.1 

1  Thomas  Ellwood,  one  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  a 
contemporary  and  friend  of  Milton,  and  the  sujfgester 
of  Paradise  Regained,  wrote  an  epic  poera  in  five 
books,  called  Davideis,  the  life  of  King  David  of  Is- 
rael. He  wrote  the  book,  we  are  told,  for  his  own  diver- 
sion, so  it  was  not  necessary  that  others  should  be 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


3*3 


At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 

The  village  paper  to  our  door. 

Lo  !  broadening  outward  as  we  read, 

To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread;       690 

In  panoramic  length  unrolled 

We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told. 

Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 

And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 

In  Costa  Rica's  everglades. 
And  up  Taygetos  winding  slow 
Rode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 
A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle-bow  ! 
Welcome  to  us  its  week-old  news, 
Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse,  7<x> 

Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and  rain, 
Its  record,  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wedding  bell  and  dirge  of  death: 
Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 
The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail; 
Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 

And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain. 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 
The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat;        710 
The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 
Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow ; 
Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  more  ! 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look 
And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 
And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book; 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past;     720 
Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  and  woe; 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 


Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death, 
And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 
Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 

With  the  white  amaranths  underneath. 
Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 

The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall,          7jc 
Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp  need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids; 
I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids 
The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 
For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears; 
Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day  ! 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life,  740 

Some   Truce    of    God    which    breaks    its 

strife, 
The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngf  ul  city  ways. 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew; 
And  dear  and  early  friends  —  the  few 
Who  yet  remain  —  shall  pause  to  view 

These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days; 
Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth  749 

To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's  blaze  ! 
And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood  -  fringed,     the     wayside     gaze     be- 
yond; 

The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 


ABRAHAM   DAVENPORT  1 

IN  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 
With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the  people 
sent 

diverted  by  it.  Ellwood's  autobiography,  a  quaint  and 
delightful  book,  may  be  found  in  Howells's  series  of 
Choice  Autobiographies.  (Riverside  Literature,  Series.) 
1  The  famous  Dark  Day  of  New  England,  May  19, 
1780,  was  a  physical  puzzle  for  many  years  to  our  ances- 
tors, but  its  occurrence  brought  something  more  than 
philosophical  speculation  into  the  minds  of  those  who 
passed  through  it.  The  incident  of  Colonel  Abraham 
Davenport's  sturdy  protest  is  a  matter  of  history. 

(WmTTIEB.) 


Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public  laws. 
And  so,  from  a  brown  homestead,  where 

the  Sound 

Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mianas, 
Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippowams, 
And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tranquil 

deaths, 
Stamford  sent  up  to  the   councils  of  the 

State 
Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Davenport. 

'T  was  on  a  May-day  of  the  far  old  year 
Seventeen  hundred  eighty,  that  there  fell  u 


3^4 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Over  the    bloom    and    sweet    life   of  the 

Spring, 
Over  the  fresh  earth   and  the  heaven  of 

noon, 

A  horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the  night 
In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas  tell,  — 
The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.  The  low-hung 


sky 
Vas  black  wil 


Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save  where 

its  rim 
Was  fringed   with  a  dull  glow,  like  that 

which  climbs 

The  crater's  sides  from  the  red  hell  below. 
Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barn-yard 

fowls  20 

Roosted;  the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 
Lowed,    and    looked    homeward  ;   bats  on 

leathern  wings 

Flitted  abroad;  the  sounds  of  labor  died; 
Men  prayed,  and  women  wept;  all  ears  grew 

sharp 
To  hear    the    doom-blast  of    the  trumpet 

shatter 
The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of 

Christ 
Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  as  He 

looked 

\  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 
A.S  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State  House,  dim 
as  ghosts,  3o 

Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 
Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 
« It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day  !     Let  us  ad- 
journ,' 

Some  said ;  and  then,  as  if  with  one  accord, 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Daven- 
port. 

He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 
The  intolerable  hush.  '  This  well  may  be 
The  Day  of  Judgment    which    the  world 

awaits; 

But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 
My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command 
To  occupy  till  He  come.     So  at  the  post  4i 
Where  He  hath  set  me  in  his  providence, 
I   choose,  for  one,  to   meet  Him  face  to 

face,  — 
No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my 

task, 
But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest 

calls; 

And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I  would 
say, 


Let  God    do    his    work,    we    will    see    to 

ours. 
Bring  in  the  candles.'     And  they  brought 


Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker- 
read, 

Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking  hands, 
An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate  5i 

The    shad   and  alewive  fisheries.     Where- 
upon 

Wisely   and  well  spake  Abraham  Daven- 
port, 
Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures  of 

speech 

Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without 
The  shrewd  dry  humor  natural  to  the  man : 
His  awe-struck  colleagues  listening  all  the 

while, 

Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 
To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 
Break    from    the   hollow  trumpet  of  the 
cloud.  60 

And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to  this 

day, 

Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face,  half  seen 
Against  the  background  of  unnatural  dark, 
A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass, 
That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear. 

1860. 

THE    DEAD    SHIP    OF    HARPS- 
WELL 

WHAT  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond 

The  sundown's  golden  trail  ? 
The  white  flash  of  a  sea-bird's  wing, 

Or  gleam  of  slanting  sail  ? 
Let  young  eyes  watch  from  Neck  and  Point, 

And  sea-worn  elders  pray,  — 
The  ghost  of  what  was  once  a  ship 

Is  sailing  up  the  bay  ! 

From  gray  sea-fog,  from  icy  drift, 

From  peril  and  from  pain,  io 

The  home-bound  fisher  greets  thy  lights, 

O  hundred-harbored  Maine  ! 
But  many  a  keel  shall  seaward  turn, 

And  many  a  sail  outstand, 
When,  tall  and  white,  the  Dead  Ship  looms 

Against  the  dusk  of  land. 

She  rounds  the  headland's  bristling  pines; 
She  threads  the  isle-set  bay; 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


325 


No  spur  of  breeze  can  speed  her  on 

Nor  ebb  of  tide  delay.  20 

Old  men  still  walk  the  Isle  of  Orr 
Who  tell  her  date  and  name, 

Old  shipwrights  sit  in  Freeport  yards 
Who  hewed  her  oaken  frame. 

What  weary  doom  of  baffled  quest, 

Thou  sad  sea-ghost,  is  thine  ? 
What  makes  thee  in  the  haunts  of  home 

A  wonder  and  a  sign  ? 
No  foot  is  on  thy  silent  deck, 

Upon  thy  helm  no  hand;  30 

No  ripple  hath  the  soundless  wind 

That  smites  thee  from  the  land  ! 

.for  never  comes  the  ship  to  port, 

Howe'er  the  breeze  may  be; 
lust  when  she  nears  the  waiting  shore 

She  drifts  again  to  sea. 
No  tack  of  sail,  nor  turn  of  helm, 

Nor  sheer  of  veering  side, 
Stern-fore  she  drives  to  sea  and  night, 

Against  the  wind  and  tide.  40 

In  vain  o'er  Harpswell  Neck  the  star 

Of  evening  guides  her  in; 
In  vain  for  her  the  lamps  are  lit 

Within  thy  tower,  Seguin  ! 
In  vain  the  harbor-boat  shall  hail, 

In  vain  the  pilot  call; 
No  hand  shall  reef  his  spectral  sail, 

Or  let  her  anchor  fall. 

Shake,  brown  old  wives,  with  dreary  joy, 

Your  gray-head  hints  of  ill;  50 

And,  over  sick-beds  whispering  low, 

Your  prophecies  fulfil. 
Some  home  amid  yon  birchen  trees 

Shall  drape  its  door  with  woe; 
And  slowly  where  the  Dead  Ship  sails, 

The  burial  boat  shall  row  ! 

From  Wolf  Neck  and  from  Flying  Point, 

From  island  and  from  main, 
From  sheltered  cove  and  tided  creek, 

Shall  glide  the  funeral  train.  60 

The  dead-boat  with  the  bearers  four, 

The  mourners  at  her  stern,  — 
And  one  shall  go  the  silent  way 

Who  shall  no  more  return  ! 

And  men  shall  sigh,  and  women  weep, 

Whose  dear  ones  pale  and  pine, 
And  sadly  over  sunset  seas 


Await  the  ghostly  sign. 
They  know  not  that  its  sails  are  filled 

By  pity's  tender  breath,  ^c• 

Nor  see  the  Angel  at  the  helm 

Who  steers  the  Ship  of  Death  ) 

1866. 


OUR  MASTER  i 

IMMORTAL  Love,  forever  full, 

Forever  flowing  free, 
Forever  shared,  forever  whole, 

A  never-ebbing  sea  ! 

Our  outward  lips  confess  the  name 

All  other  names  above; 
Love  only  knoweth  whence  it  came 

And  comprehendeth  love. 

Blow,  winds  of  God,  awake  and  blow 
The  mists  of  earth  away  !  10 

Shine  out,  O  Light  Divine,  and  show 
How  wide  and  far  we  stray  ! 

Hush  every  lip,  close  every  book, 
The  strife  of  tongues  forbear; 

Why  forward  reach,  or  backward  loo':, 
For  love  that  clasps  like  air  ? 

We  may  not  climb  the  heavenly  steep* 
To  bring  the  Lord  Christ  down: 

In  vain  we  search  the  lowest  deeps, 
For  Him  no  depths  can  drown.  ^ 

Nor  holy  bread,  nor  blood  of  grape, 

The  lineaments  restore 
Of  Him  we  know  in  outward  shape 

And  in  the  flesh  no  more. 

He  cometh  not  a  king  to  reign; 

The  world's  long  hope  is  dim ; 
The  weary  centuries  watch  in  vain 

The  clouds  of  heaven  for  Him. 

Death  comes,  life  goes;  the  asking  eye 
And  ear  are  answerless;  3« 

The  grave  is  dumb,  the  hollow  sky 
Is  sad  with  silentness. 

The  letter  fails,  and  systems  fall, 
And  every  symbol  wanes; 

1  Five  of  the  best-known  hymns  by  Whittier  are 
taken  from  this  poem,  beginning  with  the  first,  seventh, 
sixteenth,  twenty-fourth,  and  thirty-fifth  stanzas. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


The  Spirit  over-brooding  all 
Eternal  Love  remains. 

And  not  for  signs  in  heaven  above 

Or  earth  below  they  look, 
Who  know  with  John  his  smile  of  love, 

With  Peter  his  rebuke.  4o 

In  joy  of  inward  peace,  or  sense 

Of  sorrow  over  sin, 
He  is  his  own  best  evidence, 

His  witness  is  within. 

No  fable  old,  nor  mythic  lore, 
Nor  dream  of  bards  and  seers, 

No  dead  fact  stranded  on  the  shore 
Of  the  oblivious  years ;  — 

But  warm,  sweet,  tender,  even  yet 

A  present  help  is  He ;  50 

And  faith  has  still  its  Olivet, 
And  love  its  Galilee. 

The  healing  of  his  seamless  dress 

We  touch  Him  in  life's  throng  and  press, 
And  we  are  whole  again. 

Through  Him  the  first  fond  prayers  are  said 

Our  lips  of  childhood  frame, 
The  last  low  whispers  of  our  dead 

Are  burdened  with  his  name.  60 

Our  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all ! 

Whate'er  our  name  or  sign, 
We  own  thy  sway,  we  hear  thy  call, 

We  test  our  lives  by  thine. 

Thou  judgest  us;  thy  purity 

Doth  all  our  lusts  condemn; 
The  love  that  draws  us  nearer  Thee 

Is  hot  with  wrath  to  them. 

Our  thoughts  lie  open  to  thy  sight, 

And,  naked  to  thy  glance,  70 

Our  secret  sins  are  in  the  light 
Of  thy  pure  countenance. 

Thy  healing  pains,  a  keen  distress 

Thy  tender  light  shines  in; 
Thy  sweetness  is  the  bitterness, 

Thy  grace  the  pang  of  sin. 

Yet,  weak  and  blinded  though  we  be, 
Thou  dost  our  service  own; 


We  bring  our  varying  gifts  to  Thee, 

And  Thou  rejectest  none.  go 

To  Thee  our  full  humanity, 

Its  joys  and  pains,  belong; 
The  wrong  of  man  to  man  on  Thee 

Inflicts  a  deeper  wrong. 

Who  hates,  hates  Thee,  who  loves  becomes 

There  in  to  Thee  allied; 
All  sweet  accords  of  hearts  and  homes 

In  Thee  are  multiplied. 

Deep  strike  thy  roots,  O  heavenly  Vine, 
Within  our  earthly  sod,  90 

Most  human  and  yet  most  divine, 
The  flower  of  man  and  God  ! 

O  Love  !  O  Life  !     Our  faith  and  sight 

Thy  presence  maketh  one, 
As  through  transfigured  clouds  of  white 

We  trace  the  noon-day  sun. 

So,  to  our  mortal  eyes  subdued, 
Flesh-veiled,  but  not  concealed, 

We  know  in  Thee  the  fatherhood 

And  heart  of  God  revealed.  100 

We  faintly  hear,  we  dimly  see, 

In  differing  phrase  we  pray; 
But,  dim  or  clear,  we  own  in  Thee 

The  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way  ! 

The  homage  that  we  render  Thee 

Is  still  our  Father's  own; 
No  jealous  claim  or  rivalry 

Divides  the  Cross  and  Throne. 

To  do  thy  will  is  more  than  praise, 

As  words  are  less  than  deeds,  no 

And  simple  trust  can  find  thy  ways 
We  miss  with  chart  of  creeds. 

No  pride  of  self  thy  service  hath, 

No  place  for  me  and  mine; 
Our  human  strength  is  weakness,  death 

Our  life,  apart  from  thine. 

Apart  from  Thee  all  gain  is  loss, 

All  labor  vainly  done; 
The  solemn  shadow  of  thy  Cross 

Is  better  than  the  sun.  120 

Alone,  O  Love  ineffable  ! 
Thy  saving  name  is  given; 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


327 


To  turn  aside  from  Thee  is  hell, 
To  walk  with  Thee  is  heaven  ! 

How  vain,  secure  in  all  Thou  art, 

Our  noisy  championship  ! 
The  sighing  of  the  contrite  heart 

Is  more  than  flattering  lip. 

Not  thine  the  bigot's  partial  plea, 

Nor  thine  the  zealot's  ban;  130 

Thou  well  canst  spare  a  love  of  Thee 
Which  ends  in  hate  of  man. 

Our  Friend,  our  Brother,  and  our  Lord, 
What  may  thy  service  be  ?  — 

Nor  name,  nor  form,  nor  ritual  word, 
But  simply  following  Thee. 

We  bring  no  ghastly  holocaust, 

We  pile  no  graven  stone ; 
He  serves  Thee  best  who  loveth  most 

His  brothers  and  thy  own.  140 

Thy  litanies,  sweet  offices 
Of  Ic 


love  and  gratitude; 
icramental  liturgies 
joy  of  doing  good. 


In  vain  shall  waves  of  incense  drift 

The  vaulted  nave  around, 
In  vain  the  minster  turret  lift 

Its  brazen  weights  of  sound. 

The  heart  must  ring  thy  Christmas  bells, 
Thy  inward  altars  raise;  150 

Its  faith  and  hope  thy  canticles, 
And  its  obedience  praise  ! 

1866? 

THE   WORSHIP    OF   NATURE 

THE  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 

Has  never  ceased  to  play; 
The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 

Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 

By  all  things  near  and  far; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 
As  kneels  the  human  knee,  J0 

Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 
The  priesthood  of  the  sea  ! 


They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  forth, 
Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 

And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 
Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 
From  many  a  mountain  shrine; 

From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 

She  pours  her  sacred  wine.  20 

The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 
Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer; 

The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 
Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud, 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — 
The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  drooping  head  and  branches  crossed 
The  twilight  forest  grieves,  3o 

Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 
From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 

With  which  her  years  began, 
And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 

The  prayerless  heart  of  man.  40 

1867. 


THE    MEETING 

THE  elder  folks  shook  hands  at  last, 
Down  seat  by  seat  the  signal  passed. 
To  simple  ways  like  ours  unused, 
Half  solemnized  and  half  amused, 
With  long-drawn  breath   and   shrug,   my 

guest 

His  sense  of  glad  relief  expressed. 
Outside,  the  hills  lay  warm  in  sun; 
The  cattle  in  the  meadow-run 
Stood  half -leg  deep;  a  single  bird 
The  green  repose  above  us  stirred.  ia 

'  What  part  or  lot  have  you,'  he  said, 
'  In  these  dull  rites  of  drowsy-head  ? 
Is  silence  worship  ?   Seek  it  where 
It  soothes  with  dreams  the  summer  air, 
Not  in  this  close  and  rude-benched  hall, 


328 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


But  where  soft  lights  and  shadows  fall, 

And  all  the  slow,  sleep-walking  hours 

Glide  soundless  over  grass  and  flowers  ! 

From  time  and  place  and  form  apart, 

Its  holy  ground  the  human  heart,  2o 

Nor  ritual-bound  nor  templeward 

Walks  the  free  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 

Our  common  Master  did  not  pen 

His  followers  up  from  other  men; 

His  service  liberty  indeed, 

He  built  no  church,  He  framed  no  creed; 

But  while  the  saintly  Pharisee 

Made  broader  his  phylactery, 

As  from  the  synagogue  was  seen 

The  dusty-sandalled  Nazarene  30 

Through  ripening  cornfields  lead  the  way 

Upon  the  awful  Sabbath  day, 

His  sermons  were  the  healthful  talk 

That  shorter  made  the  mountain-walk, 

His  wayside  texts  were  flowers  and  birds, 

Where  mingled  with  his  gracious  words 

The  rustle  of  the  tamarisk-tree 

And  ripple-wash  of  Galilee.' 

'Thy  words  are  well,  O  friend,'  I  said; 

:  Unmeasured  and  unlimited,  40 

With  noiseless  slide  of  stone  to  stone, 

The  mystic  Church  of  God  has  grown. 

Invisible  and  silent  stands 

The  temple  never  made  with  hands, 

Unheard  the  voices  still  and  small 

Of  its  unseen  confessional. 

He  needs  no  special  place  of  prayer 

Whose  hearing  ear  is  everywhere; 

He  brings  not  back  the  childish  days 

That  ringed  the  earth  with  stones  of  praise, 

Roofed  Karnak's  hall  of  gods,  and  laid     51 

The  plinths  of  Philae's  colonnade. 

Still  less  He  owns  the  selfish  good 

And  sickly  growth  of  solitude,  — 

The  worthless  grace  that,  out  of  sight, 

Flowers  in  the  desert  anchorite; 

Dissevered  from  the  suffering  whole, 

Love  hath  no  power  to  save  a  soul. 

Not  out  of  Self,  the  origin 

And  native  air  and  soil  of  sin,  60 

The  living  waters  spring  and  flow, 

The  trees  with  leaves  of  healing  grow. 

'  Dream  not,  0  friend,  because  I  seek 

This  quiet  shelter  twice  a  week, 

I  better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 

Than  breezy  hill  or  sea-sung  shore; 

But  nature  is  not  solitude: 

She  crowds  us  with  her  thronging  wood; 


Her  many  hands  reach  out  to  us, 

Her  many  tongues  are  garrulous;  70 

Perpetual  riddles  of  surprise 

She  offers  to  our  ears  and  eyes; 

She  will  not  leave  our  senses  still, 

But  drags  them  captive  at  her  will: 

And,  making  earth  too  great  for  heaven, 

She  hides  the  Giver  in  the  given. 

'  And  so  I  find  it  well  to  come 

For  deeper  rest  to  this  still  room, 

For  here  the  habit  of  the  soul 

Feels  less  the  outer  world's  control;          80 

The  strength  of  mutual  purpose  pleads 

More  earnestly  our  common  needs; 

And  from  the  silence  multiplied 

By  these  still  forms  on  either  side, 

The  world  that  time  and  sense  have  known 

Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone. 

'  Yet  rarely  through  the  charmed  repose 

Unmixed  the  stream  of  motive  flows, 

A  flavor  of  its  many  springs, 

The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  it  brings;          90 

In  the  still  waters  needs  must  be 

Some  shade  of  human  sympathy; 

And  here,  in  its  accustomed  place, 

I  look  on  memory's  dearest  face; 

The  blind  by-sitter  guesseth  not 

What  shadow  haunts  that  vacant  spot; 

No  eyes  save  mine  alone  can  see 

The  love  wherewith  it  welcomes  me  ! 

And  still,  with  those  alone  my  kin, 

In  doubt  and  weakness,  want  and  sin,      >oo 

I  bow  my  head,  my  heart  I  bare, 

As  when  that  face  was  living  there, 

And  strive  (too  oft,  alas  !  in  vain) 

The  peace  of  simple  trust  to  gain, 

Fold  fancy's  restless  wings,  and  lay 

The  idols  of  my  heart  away. 

'  Welcome  the  silence  all  unbroken, 
Nor  less  the  words  of  fitness  spoken,  — 
Such  golden  words  as  hers  for  whom 
Our    autumn     flowers     have    just     made 

room;  no 

Whose     hopeful    utterance    through    and 

through 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  blew; 
Who  loved  not  less  the  earth  that  light 
Fell  on  it  from  the  heavens  in  sight, 
But  saw  in  all  fair  forms  more  fair 
The  Eternal  beauty  mirrored  there. 
Whose  eighty  years  but  added  grace 
And  saintlier  meaning  to  her  face,  — 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


329 


The  look  of  one  who  borj3  away 

Glad  tidings  from  the  hills  of  day,  120 

While  all  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet 

The  coming  of  her  beautiful  feet ! 

Or  haply  hers,  whose  pilgrim  tread 

Is  in  the  paths  where  Jesus  led; 

Who  dreams  her  childhood's  sabbath  dream 

By  Jordan's  willow-shaded  stream, 

And,  of  the  hymns  of  hope  and  faith, 

Sung  by  the  monks  of  Nazareth, 

Hears  pious  echoes,  in  the  call 

To  prayer,  from  Moslem  minarets  fall,    130 

Repeating  where  his  works  were  wrought 

The  lesson  that  her  Master  taught, 

Of  whom  an  elder  Sibyl  gave, 

The  prophecies  of  Cumse's  cave  ! 

'  I  ask  no  organ's  soulless  breath 

To  drone  the  themes  of  life  and  death, 

No  altar  candle-lit  by  day, 

No  ornate  wordsman's  rhetoric-play, 

No  cool  philosophy  to  teach 

Its  bland  audacities  of  speech  140 

To  double-tasked  idolaters 

Themselves  their  gods  and  worshippers, 

No  pulpit  hammered  by  the  fist 

Of  loud-asserting  dogmatist, 

Who  borrows  for  the  Hand  of  love 

The  smoking  thunderbolts  of  Jove. 

I  know  how  well  the  fathers  taught, 

What  work  the  later  schoolmen  wrought; 

I  reverence  old-time  faith  and  men, 

But  God  is  near  us  now  as  then;  150 

His  force  of  love  is  still  unspent, 

His  hate  of  sin  as  imminent; 

And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 

Outgrows  the  cramping  bounds  of  creeds; 

The  manna  gathered  yesterday 

Already  savors  of  decay ; 

Doubts  to  the  world's  child-heart  unknown 

Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone; 

Too  little  or  too  much  we  know, 

And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow;         160 

The  power  is  lost  to  self-deceive 

With  shallow  forms  of  make-believe. 

We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 

Call  to  a  thousand  oracles, 

But  the  sound  deafens,  and  the  light 

Is  stronger  than  our  dazzled  sight; 

The  letters  of  the  sacred  Book 

Glimmer  and  swim  beneath  our  look; 

Still  struggles  in  the  Age's  breast 

With  deepening  agony  of  quest  170 

The  old  entreaty  :  "  Art  tho.u  He, 

Or  look  we  for  the  Christ  to  be  ?  " 


'  God  should  be  most  where  man  is  least: 

So,  where  is  neither  church  nor  priest, 

And  never  rag  of  form  or  creed 

To  clothe  the  nakedness  of  need,  — 

Where  farmer-folk  in  silence  meet,  — 

I  turn  my  bell-unsummoned  feet; 

I  lay  the  critic's  glass  aside, 

I  tread  upon  my  lettered  pride,  183 

And,  lowest-seated,  testify 

To  the  oneness  of  humanity; 

Confess  the  universal  want, 

And  share  whatever  Heaven  may  grant. 

He  findeth  not  who  seeks  his  own, 

The  soul  is  lost  that 's  saved  alone. 

Not  on  one  favored  forehead  fell 

Of  old  the  fire-tongued  miracle, 

But  flamed  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 

The  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost;  190 

Heart  answers  heart:  in  one  desire 

The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire ; 

"  Where,  in  my  name,  meet  two  or  three," 

Our  Lord  hath  said,  "  I  there  will  be  !  " 

'  So  sometimes  comes  to  soul  and  sense 

The  feeling  which  is  evidence 

That  very  near  about  us  lies 

The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 

The  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 

Impinges  on  this  world  of  ours.  200 

The  low  and  dark  horizon  lifts, 

To  light  the  scenic  terror  shifts; 

The  breath  of  a  diviner  air 

Blows  down  the  answer  of  a  prayer: 

That  all  our  sorrow,  pain,  and  doubt 

A  great  compassion  clasps  about, 

And  law  and  goodness,  love  and  force, 

Are  wedded  fast  beyond  divorce. 

Then  duty  leaves  to  love  its  task, 

The  beggar  Self  forgets  to  ask;  210 

With  smile  of  trust  and  folded  hands, 

The  passive  soul  in  waiting  stands 

To  feel,  as  flowers  the  sun  and  dew, 

The  One  true  Life  its  own  renew. 

'  So  to  the  calmly  gathered  thought 

The  innermost  of  truth  is  taught, 

The  mystery  dimly  understood, 

That  love  of  God  is  love  of  good, 

And,  chiefly,  its  divinest  trace 

In  Him  of  Nazareth's  holy  face;  220 

That  to  be  saved  is  only  this,  — 

Salvation  from  our  selfishness, 

From  more  than  elemental  fire, 

The  soul's  unsanctified  desire, 

From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 


33° 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


That  warns  us  of  its  chafing  chain; 

That  worship's  deeper  meaning  lies 

In  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice, 

Not  proud  humilities  of  sense 

And  posturing  of  penitence,  230 

But  love's  unforced  obedience; 

That  Book  and  Church  and  Day  are  given 

For    man,    not     God,  —  for     earth,     not 

heaven,  — 

The  blessed  means  to  holiest  ends, 
Not  masters,  but  benignant  friends; 
That  the  dear  Christ  dwells  not  afar, 
The  king  of  some  remoter  star, 
Listening,  at  times,  with  flattered  ear 
To  homage  wrung  from  selfish  fear, 
But  here,  amidst  the  poor  and  blind,        240 
The  bound  and  suffering  of  our  kind, 
In  works  we  do,  in  prayers  we  pray, 
Life  of  our  life,  He  lives  to-day.' 


AMONG   THE   HILLS1 


ALONG   the   roadside,  like   the  flowers  of 

gold 

That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  golden-rod, 
And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal-flowers 
Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright  staves. 
The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind, 
Wing-weary  with  its  long  flight  from  the 

south, 
Unfelt;   yet,  closely   scanned,   yon   maple 

leaf 

With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in  dreams, 
Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall        10 
Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp  alarm. 
A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 
Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep 
On  the  load's  top.     Against  the  neighbor- 

ing hill, 

Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady  side, 
The  sheep   show  white,  as  if  a  snowdrift 

still 

1  The  lady  of  the  poem  '  Among  the  Hills'  was  purely 
imaginary.     I  was  charmed  with  the  scenery  in  Tarn- 


worth  and  West  Ossipee,  and  tried  to  call  attention  to 
.  ...  With  t 

rugged 
masses  of  Ossipee  on  the  other,  it  is  really  one  of  the 


it  in  a  story.  ...  With  the  long  range  of  the  Sandwich 
Mountains  and  Chocorua  on  one  hand,  and  the 


most  picturesque  situations  in  the  State.  (WHITTIER, 
in  a  letter  of  May  11,  1881,  quoted  in  Pickard's  Life, 
vol.  ii,  p.  669.  See  also  pp.  536-538.)  The  poem  was  at 
first  called  '  A  Summer  Idyl,'  and  planned  aa  a  com- 
panion piece  to  the  '  Snow-Bound,  a  Winter  Idyl.' 


Defied   the   dog-stor.     Through   the    open 

door 

A  drowsy  smell   of   flowers  —  gray  helio- 
trope, 

And  white  sweet  clover,  and  shy  mignon- 
ette- 
Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lends  20 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 

No  time  is  this  for  hands  long  over-worn 
To  task  their  strength:  and  (unto  Him  be 

praise 
Who  giveth  quietness  !)    the   stress    and 

strain 

Of  years  that  did  the  work  of  centuries 
Have  ceased,  and  we  can  draw  our  breath 

once  more 

Freely  and  full.     So,  as  yon  harvesters 
Make  glad  their   nooning  underneath  the 

elms 

With  tale  and  riddle  and  old  snatch  of  song, 
I  lay  aside  grave  themes,  and  idly  turn     3o 
The  leaves  of  memory's  sketch-book,  dream- 
ing o'er 

Old  summer  pictures  of  the  quiet  hills, 
And  human  life,  as  quiet,  at  their  feet. 

And  yet  not  idly  all.     A  farmer's  son, 
Proud  of  field-lore  and  harvest  craft,  and 

feeling 

All  their  fine  possibilities,  how  rich 
And  restful  even  poverty  and  toil 
Become  when  beauty,  harmony,  and  love 
Sit  at  their  humble  hearth  as  angels  sat 
At  evening   in  the  patriarch's  tent,  when 

man  4o 

Makes  labor  noble,  and  his  farmer's  frock 
The  symbol  of  a  Christian  chivalry 
Tender  and  just  and  generous  to  her 
Who  clothes  with  grace  all  duty;  still,  I 

know 

Too  well  the  picture  has  another  side,  — 
How  wearily  the  grind  of  toil  goes  on 
Where  love  is  wanting,  how  the  eye  and 

ear 

And  heart  are  starved  amidst  the  plenitude 
Of  nature,  and  how  hard  and  colorless 
Is  life  without  an  atmosphere.     I  look      5o 
Across  the  lapse  of  half  a  century, 
And  call  to  mind  old  homesteads,  where  no 

flower 
Told  that   the  spring   had  come,  but  evil 

weeds, 
Nightshade  and  rough-leaved   burdock  in 

the  place 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


Of  the  sweet  doorway  greeting  of  the  rose 
And   honeysuckle,  where    the  house  walls 

seemed 

Blistering  in  sun,  without  a  tree  or  vine 
To  cast  the  tremulous  shadow  of  its  leaves 
Across  the  curtainless  windows,  from  whose 

panes 

Fluttered  the  signal  rags  of  shiftlessness.  60 
Within,   the    cluttered   kitchen   floor,  un- 
washed 
(Broom-clean  I  think  they  called  it)  ;  the 

best  room 

Stifling  with  cellar-damp,  shut  from  the  air 
In  hot  midsummer,  bookless,  pictureless 
Save  the  inevitable  sampler  hung 
Over  the  fireplace,  or  a  mourning  piece, 
A  green-haired  woman,  peony-cheeked,  be- 
neath 
Impossible     willows;     the     wide-throated 

hearth 

Bristling  with  faded  pine-boughs  half  con- 
cealing 

The    piled-up    rubbish    at   the   chimney's 

back;  7o 

And,  in  sad  keeping  with  all  things  about 

them, 
Shrill,  querulous  women,  sour  and  sullen 

men, 

Untidy,  loveless,  old  before  their  time, 
With  scarce  a  human   interest  save  their 

own 

Monotonous  round  of  small  economies, 
Or  the  poor  scandal  of  the  neighborhood; 
Blind  to  the  beauty  everywhere  revealed, 
Treading  the  May-flowers  with  regardless 

feet; 

For  them  the  song-sparrow  and  the  bobolink 
Sang  not,   nor   winds   made   music  in  the 
leaves;  80 

For  them  in  vain  October's  holocaust 
Burned,  gold  and  crimson,  over  all  the  hills, 
The  sacramental  mystery  of  the  woods. 
Church-goers,  fearful  of  the  unseen  Powers, 
But  grumbling   over  pulpit-tax   and  pew- 
rent, 

Saving,  as  shrewd  economists,  their  souls 
And  winter  pork  with  the   least   possible 

outlay 

Of  salt  and  sanctity;  in  daily  life 
Showing  as  little  actual  comprehension 
Of  Christian  charity  and  love  and  duty     90 
As  if  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  had  been 
Outdated  like  a  last  year's  almanac: 
Rich  in  broad  woodlands  and  in  half-tilled 
fields, 


And  yet  so  pinched  and  bare  and  comfort- 
less, 

The  veriest  straggler  limping  on  his  rounds, 
The  sun  and  air  his  sole  inheritance, 
Laughed  at  a  poverty  that  paid  its  taxes, 
And  hugged  his  rags  in  self-complacency  ! 

Not  such  should  be  the  homesteads  of  a  land 
Where   whoso  wisely  wills  and  acts  may 

dwell 

As  king  and  lawgiver,  in  broad-acred  state, 
With  beauty,  art,  taste,  culture,  books,  to 

make 

His  hour  of  leisure  richer  than  a  life 
Of  fourscore  to  the  barons  of  old  time. 
Our  yeoman  should  be  equal  to  his  home 
Set  in  the  fair,  green  valleys,  purple  walled, 
A  man  to  match  his  mountains,  not  to  creep 
Dwarfed  and  abased  below  them.    I  would 

fain 
In  this  light  way  (of  which  I  needs  must 

own 
With  the  knife-grinder  of  whom  Canning 

sings,  no 

'  Story,  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell 

you  ! ') 

Invite  the  eye  to  see  and  heart  to  feel 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  within  their  reach,  — 
Home,  and  home  loves,  and  the  beatitudes 
Of  nature  free  to  all.    Haply  in  years 
That  wait  to  take  the  places  of  our  own, 
Heard  where  some  breezy  balcony  looks 

down 
On  happy  homes,  or  where  the  lake  in  the 

moon 
Sleeps  dreaming  of  the  mountains,  fair  as 

Ruth, 

In  the  old  Hebrew  pastoral,  at  the  feet    120 
Of  Boaz,  even  this  simple  lay  of  mine 
May  seem  the  burden  of  a  prophecy, 
Finding  its  late  fulfilment  in  a  change 
Slow  as  the  oak's  growth,  lifting  manhood  up 
Through   broader   culture,   finer   manners, 

love, 
And  reverence,  to  the  level  of  the  hills. 

O  Golden  Age  whose  light  is  of  the  dawn, 
And  not  of  sunset,  forward,  not  behind, 
Flood  the  new  heavens  and  earth,  and  with 

thee  bring 

All  the  old  virtues,  whatsoever  things      i3c 
Are  pure  and  honest  and  of  good  repute, 
But  add  thereto  whatever  bard  has  sung 
Or  seer  has  told  of  when  in  trance  and  dream 
They  saw  the  Happy  Isles  of  prophecy  ! 


332 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Let  Justice  hold  her  scale,  and  Truth  divide 
Between  the  right  and  wrong;  but  give  the 

heart 

The  freedom  of  its  fair  inheritance; 
Let  the  poor  prisoner,  cramped  and  starved 

so  long, 

At  Nature's  table  feast  his  ear  and  eye 
With  joy  and  wonder;  let  all  harmonies  140 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  motion,  wait  upon 
The  princely  guest,  whether  in  soft  attire 
Of  leisure  clad,  or  the  coarse  frock  of  toil, 
And,  lending  life  to  the  dead  form  of  faith, 
Give  human  nature  reverence  for  the  sake 
Of  One  who  bore  it,  making  it  divine 
With  the  ineffable  tenderness  of  God; 
J>et    common    need,   the    brotherhood    of 

prayer, 

l"he  heirship  of  an  unknown  destiny,        i49 
The  unsolved  mystery  round  about  us,  make 
A  man  more  precious  than  the  gold  of  Ophir. 
Sacred,  inviolate,  unto  whom  all  things 
Should  minister,  as  outward  types  and  signs 
Of  the  eternal  beauty  which  fulfils 
The  one  great  purpose  of  creation,  Love, 
The  sole  necessity  of  Eartli  and  Heaven  ! 


For  weeks  the  clouds  had  raked  the  hills 
And  vexed  the  vales  with  raining, 

And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with  mist, 
And  all  the  brooks  complaining.  160 

At  last,  a  sudden  night-storm  tore 

The  mountain  veils  asunder, 
And  swept  the  valleys  clean  before 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Through   Sandwich    notch  the   west-wind 
sang 

Good  morrow  to  the  cotter; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

Above  his  broad  lake,  Ossipee, 

Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing,          170 
Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 

His  grim  armorial  bearing. 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky, 
The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness; 

And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 
Had  more  than  June's  fresh  greenness. 

Again  the  sodden  forest  floors 

With  golden  lights  were  checkered, 


Once  more  rejoicing  leaves  in  wind 

And  sunshine  danced  and  flickered.       i8c 

It  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 

I  call  to  mind  those  banded  vales 

Of  shadow  and  of  shining, 
Through  which,  my  hostess  at  my  side, 

I  drove  in  day's  declining. 

We  held  our  sidelong  way  above 

The  river's  whitening  shallows,  ;90 

By  homesteads  old,  with  wide-flung  barns 
Swept  through  and  through  by  swallows; 

By  maple  orchards,  belts  of  pine 

And  larches  climbing  darkly 
The  mountain  slopes,  and,  over  all, 

The  great  peaks  rising  starkly. 

You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill-range 
With  gaps  of  brightness  riven, — 

How  through  each  pass  and  hollow  streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  heaven,  —          zo& 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 
From  far  celestial  fountains,  — 

The  great  sun  flaming  through  the  rifts 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains  ! 

We  paused  at  last  where  home-bound  cows 
Brought  down  the  pasture's  treasure, 

And  in  the  barn  the  rhythmic  flails 
Beat  out  a  harvest  measure. 

We  heard  the  night-hawk's  sullen  plunge, 
The  crow  his  tree-mates  calling:  210 

The  shadows  lengthening  down  the  slopes 
About  our  feet  were  falling. 

And  through  them  smote  the  level  sun 

In  broken  lines  of  splendor, 
Touched  the  gray  rocks  and  made  the  greer 

Of  the  shorn  grass  more  tender. 

The  maples  bending  o'er  the  gate, 
Their  arch  of  leaves  iust  tinted 

With  yellow  warmth,  the  golden  glow 
Of  coming  autumn  hinted.  220 

Keen  white  between  the  farm-house  showed, 
And  smiled  on  porch  and  trellis 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


333 


The  fair  democracy  of  flowers 
That  equals  cot  and  palace. 

And  weaving  garlands  for  her  dog, 

'Twixt  chidings  and  caresses, 
A  human  flower  of  childhood  shook 

The  sunshine  from  her  tresses. 

On  either  hand  we  saw  the  signs 

Of  fancy  and  of  shrewdness,  230 

Where  taste  had  wound  its  arms  of  vines 
Round  thrift's  uncomely  rudeness. ' 

The  sun-brown  farmer  in  his  frock 
Shook  hands,  and  called  to  Mary: 

Bare-armed,  as  Juno  might,  she  came, 
White-aproned  from  her  dairy. 

Her  air,  her  smile,  her  motions,  told 

Of  womanly  completeness; 
A  music  as  of  household  songs 

Was  in  her  voice  of  sweetness.  240 

Xot  fair  alone  in  curve  and  line, 
But  something  more  and  better, 

The  secret  charm  eluding  art, 
Its  spirit,  not  its  letter;  — 

An  inborn  grace  that  nothing  lacked 

Of  culture  or  appliance,  — 
The  warmth  of  genial  courtesy, 

The  calm  of  self-reliance. 

Before  her  queenly  womanhood 

How  dared  our  hostess  utter  250 

The  paltry  errand  of  her  need 

To  buy  her  fresh-churned  butter  ? 

She  led  the  way  with  housewife  pride, 

Her  goodly  store  disclosing, 
Full  tenderly  the  golden  balls 

With  practised  hands  disposing. 

Then,  while  along  the  western  hills 
We  watched  the  changeful  glory 

Of  sunset,  on  our  homeward  way, 

I  heard  her  simple  story.  260 

The  early  crickets  sang;  the  stream 
Plashed  through  my  friend's  narration: 

Her  rustic  patois  of  the  hills 
Lost  in  my  free  translation. 

'  More  wise,'  she  said, '  than  those  who  swarm 
Our  hills  in  middle  summer, 


She  came,  when  June's  first  roses  blow, 
To  greet  the  early  comer. 

'  From  school  and  ball  and  rout  she  came, 
The  city's  fair,  pale  daughter,  270 

To  drink  the  wine  of  mountain  air 
Beside  the  Bearcamp  Water. 

'  Her  step  grew  firmer  on  the  hills 
That  watch  our  homesteads  over; 

On  cheek  and  lip,  from  summer  fields, 
She  caught  the  bloom  of  clover. 

'  For  health  comes  sparkling  in  the  streams 

From  cool  (Jhocorua  stealing: 
There  's  iron  in  our  northern  winds; 

Our  pines  are  trees  of  healing.  280 

'  She  sat  beneath  the  broad-armed  elms 
That  skirt  the  mowing  meadow, 

And  watched  the  gentle  west-wind  weave 
The  grass  with  shine  and  shadow. 

'  Beside  her,  from  the  summer  heat 
To  share  her  grateful  screening, 

With  forehead  bared,  the  farmer  stood, 
Upon  his  pitchfork  leaning. 

'  Framed  in  its  damp,  dark  locks*  his  face 
Had  nothing  mean  or  common,  —         290 

Strong,  manly,  true,  the  tenderness 
And  pride  beloved  of  woman. 

'  She  looked  up,  glowing  with  the  health 
The  country  air  had  brought  her, 

And,  laughing,  said:  "You  lack  a  wife, 
Your  mother  lacks  a  daughter. 

'  "  To  mend  your  frock  and  bake  your  bread 

You  do  not  need  a  lady: 
Be  sure  among  these  brown  old  homes 

Is  some  one  waiting  ready,  —  300 

'  "  Some  fair,  sweet  girl  with  skilful  hand 
And  cheerful  heart  for  treasure, 

Who  never  played  with  ivory  keys, 
Or  danced  the  polka's  measure." 

'  He  bent  his  black  brows  to  a  frown, 
He  set  his  white  teeth  tightly. 

"  'T  is  well,"  he  said,  "  for  one  like  you 
To  choose  for  me  so  lightly. 

'  "  You  think  because  my  life  is  rude 

I  take  no  note  of  sweetness:  jro 


334 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


I  tell  you  love  has  naught  to  do 
With  meetness  or  unmeetness. 

«  "  Itself  its  best  excuse,  it  asks 

No  leave  of  pride  or  fashion 
When  silken  zone  or  homespun  frock 

It  stirs  with  throbs  of  passion. 

"  You  think  me  deaf  and  blind :  you  bring 

Your  winning  graces  hither 
As  free  as  if  from  cradle-time 

We  two  had  played  together.  320 

«  "  You  tempt  me  with  your  laughing  eyes, 
Your  cheek  of  sundown's  blushes, 

A  motion  as  of  waving  grain, 
A  music  as  of  thrushes. 

'  "  The  plaything  of  your  summer  sport, 
The  spells  you  weave  around  me 

You  cannot  at  your  will  undo, 
Nor  leave  me  as  you  found  me. 

' "  You  go  as  lightly  as  you  came, 

Your  life  is  well  without  me;  330 

What  care  you  that  these  hills  will  close 
Like  prison-walls  about  me  ? 

'  "  No  mood  is  mine  to  seek  a  wife, 

Or  daughter  for  my  mother: 
Who  loves  you  loses  in  that  love 

All  power  to  love  another  ! 

'  "  I  dare  your  pity  or  your  scorn, 
With  pride  your  own  exceeding; 

I  fling  my  heart  into  your  lap 

Without  a  word  of  pleading."  340 

'  She  looked  up  in  his  face  of  pain 

So  archly,  yet  so  tender: 
"  And  if  I  lend  you  mine,"  she  said, 

"  Will  you  forgive  the  lender  ? 

'  "  Nor  frock  nor  tan  can  hide  the  man; 

And  see  you  not,  my  farmer, 
How  weak  and  fond  a  woman  waits 

Behind  the  silken  armor  ? 

'  "  I  love  you:  on  that  love  alone, 

And  not  my  worth,  presuming,  350 

Will  you  not  trust  for  summer  fruit 
The  tree  in  May-day  blooming  ?  " 

'  Alone  the  hangbird  overhead, 
His  hair-swung  cradle  straining, 


Looked  down  to  see  love's  miracle,  — 
The  giving  that  is  gaming. 

'  And  so  the  farmer  found  a  wife> 
His  mother  found  a  daughter: 

There  looks  no  happier  home  than  hers 
On  pleasant  Bearcamp  Water.  36o 

'  Flowers  spring  to  blossom  where  she  walks 

The  careful  ways  of  duty; 
Our  hard,  stiff  lines  of  life  with  her 

Are1  flowing  curves  of  beauty. 

'  Our  homes  are  cheerier  for  her  sake, 
Our  door-yards  brighter  blooming, 

And  all  about  the  social  air 
Is  sweeter  for  her  coming. 

'  Unspoken  homilies  of  peace 

Her  daily  life  is  preaching;  370 

The  still  refreshment  of  the  dew 

Is  her  unconscious  teaching. 

'  And  never  tenderer  hand  than  hers 

Unknits  the  brow  of  ailing; 
Her  garments  to  the  sick  man's  ear 

Have  music  in  their  trailing. 

'  And  when,  in  pleasant  harvest  moons, 

The  youthful  buskers  gather, 
Or  sleigh-drives  on  the  mountain  ways 

Defy  the  winter  weather,  —  3gi. 

'  In  sugar-camps,  when  south  and  warm 
The  winds  of  March  are  blowing, 

And  sweetly  from  its  thawing  veins 
The  maple's  blood  is  flowing,  — 

'  In  summer,  where  some  lilied  pond 

Its  virgin  zone  is  baring, 
Or  where  the  ruddy  autumn  fire 

Lights  up  the  apple-paring,  — 

'  The  coarseness  of  a  ruder  time 

Her  finer  mirth  displaces,  39o 

A  subtler  sense  of  pleasure  fills 

Each  rustic  sport  she  graces. 

'  Her  presence  lends  its  warmth  and  health 

To  all  who  come  before  it. 
If  woman  lost  us  Eden,  such 

As  she  alone  restore  it. 

'  For  larger  life  and  wiser  aims 
The  farmer  is  her  debtor; 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


335 


Who  holds  to  his  another's  heart 

Must  needs  be  worse  or  better.  400 

'  Through  her  his  civic  service  shows 

A  purer-toned  ambition ; 
No  double  consciousness  divides 

The  man  and  politician. 

'  In  party's  doubtful  ways  he  trusts 

Her  instincts  to  determine; 
At  the  loud  polls,  the  thought  of  her 

Recalls  Christ's  Mountain  Sermon. 

'  He  owns  her  logic  of  the  heart, 

And  wisdom  of  unreason,  410 

Supplying,  while  he  doubts  and  weighs, 
The  needed  word  in  season. 

'  He  sees  with  pride  her  richer  thought, 

Her  fancy's  freer  ranges; 
And  love  thus  deepened  to  respect 

Is  proof  against  all  changes. 

'  And  if  she  walks  at  ease  in  ways 

His  feet  are  slow  to  travel, 
And  if  she  reads  with  cultured  eyes 

What  his  may  scarce  unravel,  420 

'  Still  clearer,  for  her  keener  sight 

Of  beauty  and  of  wonder, 
He  learns  the  meaning  of  the  hills 

He  dwelt  from  childhood  under. 

'  And  higher,  warmed  with  summer  lights, 

Or  winter-crowned  and  hoary, 
The  ridged  horizon  lifts  for  him 

Its  inner  veils  of  glory. 

1  He  has  his  own  free,  bookless  lore, 

The  lessons  nature  taught  him,  430 

The  wisdom  which  the  woods  and  hills 
And  toiling  men  have  brought  him : 

'  The  steady  force  of  will  whereby 
Her  flexile  grace  seems  sweeter; 

The  sturdy  counterpoise  which  makes 
Her  woman's  life  completer; 

'  A  latent  fire  of  soul  which  lacks 

No  breath  of  love  to  fan  it; 
And  wit,  that,  like  his  native  brooks, 

Plays  over  solid  granite.  440 

1  How  dwarfed  against  his  manliness 
She  sees  the  poor  pretension, 


The  wants,  the  aims,  the  follies,  born 
Of  fashion  and  convention  ! 

'  How  life  behind  its  accidents 
Stands  strong  and  self-sustaining, 

The  human  fact  transcending  all 
The  losing  and  the  gaining. 

'  And  so  in  grateful  interchange 

Of  teacher  and  of  hearer,  4sc 

Their  lives  their  true  distinctness  keep 

While  daily  drawing  nearer. 

'  And  if  the  husband  or  the  wife 
In  home's  strong  light  discovers 

Such  slight  defaults  as  failed  to  meet 
The  blinded  eyes  of  lovers, 

'  Why  need  we  care  to  ask  ?  —  who  dreams 

Without  their  thorns  of  roses, 
Or  wonders  that  the  truest  steel 

The  readiest  spark  discloses  ?  46o 

'  For  still  in  mutual  sufferance  lies 

The  secret  of  true  living; 
Love  scarce  is  love  that  never  knows 

The  sweetness  of  forgiving. 

'  We  send  the  Squire  to  General  Court, 
He  takes  his  young  wife  thither; 

No  prouder  man  election  day 

Rides  through  the  sweet  June  weather. 

'  He  sees  with  eyes  of  manly  trust 

All  hearts  to  her  inclining;  ,\-jr> 

Not  less  for  him  his  hoiisehold  light 
That  others  share  its  shining.' 

Thus,  while  my  hostess  spake,  there  grew 

Before  me,  warmer  tinted 
And  outlined  with  a  tenderer  grace, 

The  picture  that  she  hinted. 

The  sunset  smouldered  as  we  drove 
Beneath  the  deep  hill-shadows. 

Below  us  wreaths  of  white  fog  walked 
Like  ghosts  the  haunted  meadows.       480 

Sounding  the  summer  night,  the  stars 
Dropped  down  their  golden  plummets; 

The  pale  arc  of  the  Northern  lights 
Rose  o'er  the  mountain  summits, 

Until,  at  last,  beneath  its  bridge, 
We  heard  the  Bearcamp  flowing, 


336 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


And  saw  across  the  mapled  lawn 
The  welcome  home-lights  glowing. 

And,  musing  on  the  tale  I  heard, 

'T  were  well,  thought  I,  if  often  490 

To  rugged  farm-life  came  the  gift 
To  harmonize  and  soften; 

If  more  and  more  we  found  the  troth, 

Of  fact  and  fancy  plighted, 
And  culture's  charm  and  labor's  strength 

In  rural  homes  united,  — 

The  simple  life,  the  homely  hearth, 
With  beauty's  sphere  surrounding, 

And  blessing  toil  where  toil  abounds 

With  graces  more  abounding.  500 

1867-1868.  18(58. 


MARGUERITE  * 

THE  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  the  buds 

into  blossoms  grew; 
Little  of  human  sorrow  the  buds  and  the 

robins  knew  ! 

Sick,  in  an  alien  household,  the  poor  French 

neutral  lay; 
Into  her  lonesome  garret  fell  the  light  of 

the  April  day, 

Through  the  dusty  window,  curtained  by 
the  spider's  warp  and  woof, 

On  the  loose-laid  floor  of  hemlock,  on  oaken 
ribs  of  roof, 

The  bedquilt's  faded  patchwork,  the  tea- 
cups on  the  stand, 

The  wheel  with  flaxen  tangle,  as  it  dropped 
from  her  sick  hand  ! 

What  to  her  was  the  song  of  the  robin,  or 
warm  morning  light, 

As  she  lay  in  the  trance  of  the  dying,  heed- 
less of  sound  or  sight  ?  10 

1  See  the  note  on  Longfellow's  '  Evangeline,'  p.  121. 
Whittier  wrote,  to  Mrs.  Fields  in  November,  1870 :  '  You 
know  that  a  thousand  of  the  Acadiaus  were  distributed 
among  the  towns  of  Massachusetts,  where  they  were 
mostly  treated  as  paupers.'  In  the  letter  already 
quoted  in  the  note  on  Evangeline,  he  says :  '  The  chil- 
dren were  bound  out  to  the  families  in  the  localities  in 
which  they  resided;  and  I  wrote  a  poem  upon  finding,  in 
the  records  of  Haverhill,  the  indenture  that  bound  an 
Acadian  girl  as  a  servant  in  one  of  the  families  of  that 
neighborhood.  Gathering  the  story  of  her  death,  I  wrote 
"  Marguerite." ' 


Done  was  the  work  of  her  hands,  she  had 

eaten  her  bitter  bread; 
The  world  of  the  alien  people  lay  behind 

her  dim  and  dead. 

But  her  soul  went   back  to  its  child-time ; 

she  saw  the  sun  o'erflow 
With  gold  the  Basin  of  Minas,  and  set  over 

Gaspereau ; 

The  low,  bare  flats  at  ebb-tide,  the  rush  of 

the  sea  at  flood, 
Through   inlet  and  creek  and  river,  from 

dike  to  upland  wood; 

The  gulls  in  the  red  of  morning,  the  fish- 
hawk's  rise  and  fall, 

The  drift  of  the  fog  in  moonshine,  over  the 
dark  coast-wall. 

She  saw  the  face  of  her  mother,  she  heard 

the  song  she  sang; 
And  far  off,  faintly,  slowly,   the  bell   for 

vespers  rang  !  20 

By  her  bed  the  hard-faced  mistress  sat, 
smoothing  the  wrinkled  sheet, 

Peering  into  the  face,  so  helpless,  and  feel- 
ing the  ice-cold  feet. 

With  a  vague  remorse  atoning  for  her  greed 

and  long  abuse, 
By  care  no  longer  heeded  and  pity  too  late 

for  use. 

Up  the  stairs  of  the  garret  softly  the  son  of 

the  mistress  stepped, 
Leaned  over  the  head-board,  covering  his 

face  with  his  hands,  and  wept. 

Outspake  the  mother,  who  watched  him 
sharply,  with  brow  a-frown: 

'  What  !  love  you  the  Papist,  the  beggar, 
the  charge  of  the  town  ?  ' 

'  Be  she  Papist  or  beggar  who  lies  here,  I 

know  and  God  knows 
I  love  her,  and  fain  would   go  with   her 

wherever  she  goes  !  30 

'  O  mother  !  that  sweet  face  came  pleading, 

for  love  so  athirst. 
You  saw  but  the  town-charge;  I  knew  her 

God's  angel  at  first.' 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


337 


Shaking  her  gray  head,  the  mistress  hushed 

down  a  bitter  cry; 
And  awed  by  the  silence  and  shadow  of 

death  drawing  nigh, 

She  murmured  a  psalm  of  the  Bible;  but 
closer  the  young  girl  pressed, 

With  the  last  of  her  life  in  her  fingers,  the 
cross  to  her  breast. 

'  My   son,   come  away,'  cried  the  mother, 

her  voice  cruel  grown. 
'  She  is  joined  to  her  idols,  like  Ephraim ; 

let  her  alone  ! ' 

But  he  knelt  with  his  hand  on  her  forehead, 
his  lips  to  her  ear, 

And  he  called  back  the  soul  that  was  pass- 
ing: '  Marguerite,  do  you  hear  ?  '  4o 

She   paused   on   the  threshold  of  heaven; 

love,  pity,  surprise, 
Wistful,  tender,  lit  up  for  an  instant  the 

cloud  of  her  eyes. 

With  his  heart  on  his  lips  he  kissed  her, 
but  never  her  cheek  grew  red, 

And  the  words  the  living  long  for  he  spake 
in  the  ear  of  the  dead. 

And  the  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  where 

buds  to  blossoms  grew; 
Of  the  folded  hands  and  the  still  face  never 

the  robins  knew  ! 
I860.  1871. 

IN  SCHOOL-DAYS1 

STILL  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sleeping; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 

And  blackberry-vines  are  creeping. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial; 

The  charcoal  frescoes  on  its  wall; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying  10 

1  See  Pickard's  Whittier-Land,  pp.  32,33.  For  Long- 
fellow's comment  on  the  poein,  see  Samuel  Longfellow's 
Life  of  II.  W.  Longfellow,  vol.  iii,  p.  287;  and  for 
Holmes's,  Pickard'a  Life  of  Wfiittier,  vol.  ii,  pp.  641,  642. 
'  You  have  written,'  said  Holmes  to  Whittier, '  the  most 
beautiful  sohool-boy  poem  in  the  English  language.' 


The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 
Went  storming  out  to  playing  ! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 

When  all  the  school  were  leaving.         ac 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled: 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered;  — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes;  he  felt 

The  soft  hand's  light  caressing,  30 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

'  I  'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word: 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,'  —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell,  — 

'  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you  ! ' 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 

Have  forty  years  been  growing  !  40 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss. 

Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 


1870. 


MY   TRIUMPH 

THE  autumn-time  has  come; 
On  woods  that  dream  of  bloom, 
And  over  purpling  vines 
The  -low  sun  fainter  shines. 

The  aster-flower  is  failing, 
The  hazel's  gold  is  paling; 
Yet  overhead  more  near 
The  eternal  stars  appear  ! 


338 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And  present  gratitude 
Insures  the  future's  good, 
And  for  the  things  I  see, 
I  trust  the  things  to  be ; 

That  in  the  paths  untrod, 
And  the  long  days  of  God, 
My  feet  shall  still  be  led, 
My  heart  be  comforted. 

O  living  friends  who  love  me  ! 

0  dear  ones  gone  above  me  ! 
Careless  of  other  fame, 

1  leave  to  you  my  name. 

Hide  it  from  idle  praises, 
Save  it  from  evil  phrases: 
Why,  when  dear  lips  that  spake  it 
Are   dumb,  should   strangers  wake 
it? 

Let  the  thick  curtain  fall; 
I  better  know  than  all 
How  little  I  have  gained, 
How  vast  the  unattained. 

Not  by  the  page  word-painted 
Let  life  be  banned  or  sainted: 
Deeper  than  written  scroll 
The  colors  of  the  soul. 

Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue; 

Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 

Others  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong,  — 
Finish  what  I  begin, 
And  all  I  fail  of  win. 

What  matter,  I  or  they  ? 
Mine  or  another's  day, 
So  the  right  word  be  said 
And  life  the  sweeter  made  ? 

Hail  to  the  coming  singers  ! 
Hail  to  the  brave  light-bringers  ! 
Forward  I  reach  and  share 
All  that  they  sing  and  dare.  • 

The  airs  of  heaven  blow  o'er  me ; 
A  glory  shines  before  me 
Of  what  mankind  shall  be,  — 
Pure,  generous,  brave,  and  free. 


A  dream  of  man  and  woman 
Diviner  but  still  human, 
Solving  the  riddle  old, 
Shaping  the  Age  of  Gold  1 

The  love  of  God  and  neighbor; 
An  equal-handed  labor; 
The  richer  life,  where  beauty 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  duty. 

Ring,  bells  in  unreared  steeples, 
The  joy  of  unborn  peoples  ! 
Sound,  trumpets  far  off  blown, 
Your  triumph  is  my  own  ! 

Parcel  and  part  of  all, 
I  keep  the  festival, 
Fore-reach  the  good  to  be, 
And  share  the  victory. 

I  feel  the  earth  move  sunward, 
I  join  the  great  march  onward, 
And  take,  by  faith,  while  living, 
My  freehold  of  thanksgiving. 


MY   BIRTHDAY 

BENEATH  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 

Lies  dead  my  latest  year; 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing  low 

Its  dirges  in  my  ear. 

I  grieve  not  with  the  moaning  wind 

As  if  a  loss  befell; 
Before  me,  even  as  behind, 

God  is,  and  all  is  well ! 

His  light  shines  on  me  from  above, 
His  low  voice  speaks  within,  — 

The  patience  of  immortal  love 
Outwearying  mortal  sin. 

Not  mindless  of  the  growing  years 

Of  care  and  loss  and  pain, 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  thankful  tears 

For  blessings  which  remain. 

If  dim  the  gold  of  life  has  grown, 

I  will  not  count  it  dross, 
Nor  turn  from  treasures  still  my  own 

To  sigh  for  lack  and  loss.  ; 

The  years  no  charm  from  Nature  take; 
As  sweet  her  voices  call, 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


339 


As  beautiful  her  mornings  break, 
As  fair  her  evenings  fall. 

Love  watches  o'er  my  quiet  ways, 

Kind  voices  speak  my  name, 
And  lips  that  find  it  hard  to  praise 

Are  slow,  at  least,  to  blame. 

How  softly  ebb  the  tides  of  will ! 

How  fields,  once  lost  or  won,  30 

Xow  lie  behind  me  green  and  still 

Beneath  a  level  sun  ! 

How  hushed  the  hiss  of  party  hate, 

The  clamor  of  the  throng  ! 
How  old,  harsh  voices  of  debate 

Flow  into  rhythmic  song  ! 

Methinks  the  spirit's  temper  grows 

Too  soft  in  this  still  air; 
Somewhat  the  restful  heart  foregoes 

Of  needed  watch  and  prayer.  4o 

The  bark  by  tempest  vainly  tossed 

May  founder  in  the  calm, 
And  he  who  braved  the  polar  frost 

Faint  by  the  isles  of  balm. 

Better  than  self-indulgent  years 

The  outflung  heart  of  youth, 
Than  pleasant  songs  in  idle  ears 

The  tumult  of  the  truth. 

Rest  for  the  weary  hands  is  good, 

And  love  for  hearts  that  pine,  5o 

But  let  the  manly  habitude 
Of  upright  souls  be  mine. 

Let  winds   that  blow   from   heaven   re- 
fresh, 

Dear  Lord,  the  languid  air; 
And  let  the  weakness  of  the  flesh 

Thy  strength  of  spirit  share. 

And,  if  the  eye  must  fail  of  light, 

The  ear  forget  to  hear, 
Make  clearer  still  the  spirit's  sight, 

More  fine  the  inward  ear  !  60 

Be  near  me  in  mine  hours  of  need 

To  soothe,  or  cheer,  or  warn, 
And  down  these  slopes  of  sunset  lead 

As  up  the  hills  of  morn  ! 

1871. 


THE   SISTERS 

ANNIE  and  Rhoda,  sisters  twain, 
Woke  in  the  night  to  the  sound  of  rain, 

The  rush  of  wind,  the  ramp  and  roar 
Of  great  waves  climbing  a  rocky  shore. 

Annie  rose  up  in  her  bed-gown  white, 
And  looked  out  into  the  storm  and  night. 

'  Hush,  and  hearken  ! '  she  cried  in  fear, 
'  Hearest  thou  nothing,  sister  dear  ?  ' 

'  I  hear  the  sea,  and  the  plash  of  rain, 
And  roar  of  the  northeast  hurricane.          10 

'  Get  thee  back  to  the  bed  so  warm, 
No  good  comes  of  watching  a  storm. 

'  What  is  it  to  thee,  I  fain  would  know, 
That  waves   are   roaring    and  wild  winds 
blow? 

'  No  lover  of  thine  's  afloat  to  miss 
The  harbor-lights  on  a  night  like  this.' 

'  But  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out  my  name, 
Up  from  the  sea  on  the  wind  it  came  ! 

'  Twice  and  thrice  have  I  heard  it  call, 
And   the    voice   is   the   voice   of    Estwick 
Hall ! ' 

On  her  pillow  the  sister  tossed  her  head. 
'  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  safe,'  she  said. 

'  In  the  tautest  schooner  that  ever  swam 
He  rides  at  anchor  in  Annisquam. 

'  And,  if  in  peril  from  swamping  sea 

Or  lee  shore  rocks,  would  he  call  on  thee  ? ' 

But  the  girl  heard  only  the  wind  and  tide, 
And  wringing  her  small  white  hands  she 
cried: 

'  O  sister  Rhoda,  there  's  something  wrong ; 
I  hear  it  again,  so  loud  and  long.  30 

'  "  Annie  !  Annie  !  "  I  hear  it  call, 

And  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Estwick  Hall ! ' 

Up  sprang  the  elder,  with  eyes  aflame, 

'  Thou  liest !  He  never  would  call  thy  name ,' 


34° 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


'  If  he  did,  I  would  pray  the  wind  and  sea 
To  keep  him  forever  from  thee  and  me  ! ' 

Then  out  of  the  sea  blew  a  dreadful  blast; 
Like  the  cry  of  a  dying  man  it  passed. 

The  young  girl  hushed  on  her  lips  a  groan, 

But    through   her   tears   a   strange    light 

shone,  —  40 

The  solemn  joy  of  her  heart's  release 
To  own  and  cherish  its  love  in  peace. 

*  Dearest  ! '  she  whispered,  under  breath, 

*  Life  was  a  lie,  but  true  is  death. 

*  The  love  I  hid  from  myself  away 
Shall  crown  me  now  in  the  light  of  day. 

*  My  ears  shall  never  to  wooer  list, 
Never  by  lover  my  lips  be  kissed. 

'  Sacred  to  thee  am  I  henceforth, 

Thou  in  heaven  and  J  on  earth  ! '.  50 

She  came  and  stood  by  her  sister's  bed: 
«  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  dead  ! '  she  said. 

*  The  wind  and  the  waves  their  work  have 

done, 
We  shall  see  him  no  more  beneath  the  sun. 

« Little  will  reck  that  heart  of  thine; 
It  loved  him  not  with  a  love  like  mine. 

'  I,  for  his  sake,  were  he  but  here, 
Could  hem  and  'broider  thy  bridal  gear, 

'Though  hands   should   tremble  and  eyes 

be  wet, 
And  stitch  for  stitch  in  my  heart  be  set.  60 

4  But  now  my  soul  with  his  soul  I  wed; 
Thine  the  living,  and  mine  the  dead  ! ' 


1871. 


THE   THREE   BELLS 


BENEATH  the  low-hung  night  cloud 
That  raked  her  splintering  mast 

The  good  ship  settled  slowly, 
The  cruel  leak  gained  fast. 

Over  the  awful  ocean 

Her  signal  guns  pealed  out. 


Dear  God  !  was  that  thy  answer 
From  the  horror  round  about  ? 

A  voice  came  down  the  wild  wind, 

'  Ho  !  ship  ahoy  ! '  its  cry :  10 

'  Our  stout  Three'  Bells  of  Glasgow 
Shall  lay  till  daylight  by  ! ' 

Hour  after  hour  crept  slowly, 

Yet  on  the  heaving  swells 
Tossed  up  and  down  the  ship-lights, 

The  lights  of  the  Three  Bells  ! 

And  ship  to  ship  made  signals, 

Man  answered  back  to  man, 
While  oft,  to  cheer  and  hearten, 

The  Three  Bells  nearer  ran;  2o 

And  the  captain  from  her  taffrail 

Sent  down  his  hopeful  cry: 
'  Take  heart !     Hold  on  ! '  he  shouted  ! 

'  The  Three  Bells  shall  lay  by  ! ' 

All  night  across  the  waters 
The  tossing  lights  shone  clear; 

All  night  from  reeling  taffrail 
The  Three  Bells  sent  her  cheer. 

And  when  the  dreary  watches 

Of  storm  and  darkness  passed,  30 

Just  as  the  wreck  lurched  under, 

All  souls  were  saved  at  last. 

Sail  on,  Three  Bells,  forever, 

In  grateful  memory  sail ! 
Ring  on,  Three  Bells  of  rescue, 

Above  the  wave  and  gale  ! 

Type  of  the  Love  eternal, 

Repeat  the  Master's  cry, 
As  tossing  through  our  darkness 

The  lights  of  God  draw  nigh  !  40 

1872. 


CONDUCTOR   BRADLEY1 

CONDUCTOR    BRADLEY   (always   may  his 

name 
Be  said  with  reverence  !),  as  the  swift  doom 


Smitten  to  death,  a  crushed  and  mangled 
frame, 

1  A  railway  conductor  who  lost  his  life  in  an  accident 
on  a  Connecticut  railway,  May  9,  1873.   (WHTTTMB.) 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


Sank,  with  the  brake  he  grasped  just  where 

he  stood 

To  do  the  utmost  that  a  brave  man  could, 
And  die,  if  needful,  as  a  true  man  should. 

Men  stooped  above  him;  women  dropped 

their  tears 
On  that  poor  wreck  beyond  all  hopes  or 

fears, 
Lost  in  the  strength  and  glory  of  his  years. 

What  heard  they?  Lo !  the  ghastly  lips 
of  pain,  10 

Dead  to  all  thought  save  duty's,  moved 
again: 

'  Put  out  the  signals  for  the  other  train  !  ' 

No  nobler  utterance  since  the  world  be- 
gan 

From  lips  of  saint  or  martyr  ever  ran, 
Electric,  through  the  sympathies  of  man. 

Ah  me  !  how  poor  and  noteless  seem  to 
this 

The  sick-bed  dramas  of  self-conscious- 
ness, 

Our  sensual  fears  of  pain  and  hopes  of 
bliss  ! 

Oh,   grand,   supreme    endeavor !     Not   in 

vain 
That  last  brave  act  of  failing  tongue  and 

brain !  20 

Freighted  with  life  the  downward  rushing 

train, 

Following  the  wrecked  one,  as  wave  follows 

wave, 
Obeyed  the  warning  which  the  dead  lips 

gave. 
Others  he  saved,  himself  he  could  not 


Nay,  the  lost  life    was  saved.    He  is  not 

dead 
Who  in  his  record  still  the  earth  shall 

tread 
With  God's  clear  aureole  shining  round 

his  head. 

We  bow  as  in  the  dust,  with  all  our  pride 
Of  virtue  dwarfed  the  noble  deed  beside. 
God   give   us   grace     to   live   as    Bradley 
died  I  3o 

1873.  1873. 


A   MYSTERY1 

THE  river  hemmed  with  leaning  trees 
Wound  through  its  meadows  green; 

A  low,  blue  line  of  mountains  showed 
The  open  pines  between. 

One  sharp,  tall  peak  above  them  all 

Clear  into  sunlight  sprang: 
I  saw  the  river  of  my  dreams, 

The  mountains  that  I  sang  ! 

No  clew  of  memory  led  me  on, 

But  well  the  ways  I  knew;  to 

A  feeling  of  familiar  things 
With  every  footstep  grew. 

Not  otherwise  above  its  crag 

Could  lean  the  blasted  pine; 
Not  otherwise  the  maple  hold 

Aloft  its  red  ensign. 

So  up  the  long  and  shorn  foot-hills 
The  mountain  road  should  creep; 

So,  green  and  low,  the  meadow  fold 
Its  red-haired  kine  asleep.  20 

The  river  wound  as  it  should  wind; 

Their  place  the  mountains  took; 
The  white  torn  fringes  of  their  clouds 

Wore  no  unwonted  look. 

Yet  ne'er  before  that  river's  rim 
Was  pressed  by  feet  of  mine, 

Never  before  mine  eyes  had  crossed 
That  broken  mountain  line. 

A  presence,  strange  at  once  and  known, 
Walked  with  me  as  my  guide;  3o 

The  skirts  of  some  forgotten  life 
Trailed  noiseless  at  my  side. 

Was  it  a  dim-remembered  dream  ? 

Or  glimpse  through  aeons  old  ? 
The  secret  which  the  mountains  kept 

The  river  never  told. 

But  from  the  vision  ere  it  passed 

A  tender  hope  I  drew, 
And,  pleasant  as  a  dawn  of  spring, 

The  thought  within  me  grew,  4o 

That  love  would  temper  every  change, 
And  soften  all  surprise, 
1  Compare  Lowell's  'In  the  Twilight.' 


342 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And,  misty  with  the  dreams  of  earth, 
The  hills  of  Heaven  arise. 

1873. 


THE   PRAYER   OF   AGASSIZ1 

ON  the  isle  of  Penikese, 

Ringed  about  by  sapphire  seas, 

Fanned  by  breezes  salt  and  cool, 

Stood  the  Master  with  his  school. 

Over  sails  that  not  in  vain 

Wooed  the  west-wind's  steady  strain, 

Line  of  coast  that  low  and  far 

Stretched  its  undulating  bar, 

Wings  aslant  across  the  rim 

Of  the  waves  they  stooped  to  skim,        10 

Rock  and  isle  and  glistening  bay, 

Fell  the  beautiful  white  day. 

Said  the  Master  to  the  youth: 

'  We  have  come  in  search  of  truth, 

Trying  with  uncertain  key 

Door  by  door  of  mystery ; 

We  are  reaching,  through  his  laws, 

To  the  garment-hem  of  Cause, 

Him,  the  endless,  unbegun, 

The  Unnamable,  the  One  20 

Light  of  all  our  light  the  Source, 

Life  of  life,  and  Force  of  force. 

As  with  fingers  of  the  blind, 

We  are  groping  here  to  find 

What  the  hieroglyphics  mean 

Of  the  Unseen  in  the  seen, 

What  the  Thought  which  underlies 

Nature's  masking  and  disguise, 

What  it  is  that  hides  beneath 

Blight  and  bloom  and  birth  and  death.  30 

By  past  efforts  unavailing, 

Doubt  and  error,  loss  and  failing, 

Of  our  weakness  made  aware, 

1  The  island  of  Penikese  in  Buzzard's  Bay  was  given  by 
Mr.  John  Anderson  to  Agassiz  for  the  uses  of  a  summer 
school  of  natural  history.  A  large  barn  was  cleared 
and  improvised  as  a  lecture-room.  Here,  on  the  first 
morning  of  the  school,  all  the  company  was  gathered. 
'  Agassiz  had  arranged  no  programme  of  exercises,' 
gays  Mrs.  Agassiz,  in  Louis  Agassiz ;  his  Life  and  Cor- 
respondence, '  trusting  to  the  interest  of  the  occasion 
to  suggest  what  might  best  be  said  or  done.  But,  as  he 
looked  upon  his  pupils  gathered  there  to  study  nature 
with  him,  by  an  impulse  as  natural  as  it  was  unpre- 
meditated, he  called  upon  them  to  join  in  silently  ask- 
ing God's  blessing  on  their  work  together.  The  pause 
•was  broken  by  the  first  words  of  an  address  no  less 
fervent  than  its  unspoken  prelude.'  This  was  in  the 
summer  of  ISTIi,  and  Agassiz  died  the  December  fol- 
lowing. (WHITTIER.) 


On  the  threshold  of  our  task 
Let  us  light  and  guidance  ask, 
Let  us  pause  in  silent  prayer  ! ' 

Then  the  Master  in  his  place 

Bowed  his  head  a  little  space, 

And  the  leaves  by  soft  airs  stirred, 

Lapse  of  wave  and  cry  of  bird,  40 

Left  the  solemn  hush  unbroken 

Of  that  wordless  prayer  unspoken, 

While  its  wish,  on  earth  unsaid, 

Rose  to  heaven  interpreted. 

As,  in  life's  best  hours,  we  hear 

By  the  spirit's  finer  ear 

His  low  voice  within  us,  thus 

The  All- Father  heareth  us; 

And  his  holy  ear  we  pain 

With  our  noisy  words  and  vain.  50 

Not  for  Him  our  violence 

Storming  at  the  gates  of  sense, 

His  the  primal  language,  his 

The  eternal  silences  ! 

Even  the  careless  heart  was  moved, 

And  the  doubting  gave  assent, 

With  a  gesture  reverent, 

To  the  Master  well-beloved. 

As  thin  mists  are  glorified 

By  the  light  they  cannot  hide,  60 

All  who  gazed  upon  lum  saw, 

Through  its  veil  of  tender  awe, 

How  his  face  was  still  uplit 

By  the  old  sweet  look  of  it, 

Hopeful,  trustful,  full  of  cheer, 

And  the  love  that  casts  out  fear. 

Who  the  secret  may  declare 

Of  that  brief,  unuttered  prayer  ? 

Did  the  shade  before  him  come 

Of  th'  inevitable  doom,  70 

Of  the  end  of  earth  so  near, 

And  Eternity's  new  year  ? 

In  the  lap  of  sheltering  seas 

Rests  the  isle  of  Penikese  ; 

But  the  lord  of  the  domain 

Comes  not  to  his  own  again: 

Where  the  eyes  that  follow  fail, 

On  a  vaster  sea  his  sail 

Drifts  beyond  our  beck  and  hail. 

Other  lips  within  its  bound  & 

Shall  the  laws  of  life  expound; 

Other  eyes  from  rock  and  shell 

Read  the  world's  old  riddles  well: 

But  when  breezes  light  and  bland 

Blow  from  Summer's  blossomed  land, 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


343 


When  the  air  is  glad  with  wings, 
And  the  blithe  song-sparrow  sings, 
Many  an  eye  with  his  still  face 
Shall  the  living  ones  displace, 
Many  an  ear  the  word  shall  seek  90 

He  alone  could  fitly  speak. 
And  one  name  forevermore 
Shall  be  uttered  o'er  and  o'er 
By  the  waves  that  kiss  the  shore, 
By  the  curlew's  whistle  sent 
Down  the  cool,  sea-scented  air; 
In  all  voices  known  to  her, 
Nature  owns  her  worshipper, 
Half  in  triumph,  half  lament. 
Thither  Love  shall  tearful  turn,  100 

Friendship  pause  uncovered  there, 
And  the  wisest  reverence  learn 
From  the  Master's  silent  prayer. 
1874.  1874. 


A   SEA   DREAM1 

WE  saw  the  slow  tides  go  and  come, 
The  curving  surf-lines  lightly  drawn, 

The    gray    rocks    touched    with     tender 

,  bloom 
Beneath  the  fresh-blown  rose  of  dawn. 

We  saw  in  richer  sunsets  lost 

The  sombre  pomp  of  showery  noons; 

And  signalled  spectral  sails  that  crossed 
The  weird,  low  light  of  rising  moons. 

On  stormy  eves  from  cliff  and  head 

We   saw    the    white    spray   tossed  and 
spurned;  10 

While  over  all,  in  gold  and  red, 

Its  face  of  fire  the  lighthouse  turned. 

The  rail-car  brought  its  daily  crowds, 

Half  curious,  half  indifferent, 
Like  passing  sails  or  floating  clouds, 

We  saw  them  as  they  came  and  went. 

But,  one  calm  morning,  as  we  lay 
And  watched  the  mirage-lifted  wall 

Of  coast,  across  the  dreamy  bay, 

And  heard  afar  the  curlew  call,  20 

And  nearer  voices,  wild  or  tame, 
Of  airy  flock  and  childish  throng, 

Up  from  the  water's  edge  there  came 
Faint  snatches  of  familiar  song, 
i  See  Pickard's  Whittier-Land,  pp.  67-72. 


Careless  we  heard  the  singer's  choice 
Of  old  and  common  airs;  at  last 

The  tender  pathos  of  his  voice 
In  one  low  chanson  held  us  fast. 

A  song  that  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
And  memories  old  and  sadly  sweet;  30 

While,  timing  to  its  minor  strain, 
The  waves  in  lapsing  cadence  beat. 


The  waves  are  glad  in  breeze  and  sun; 

The  rocks  are  fringed  with  foam; 
I  walk  once  more  a  haunted  shore, 

A  stranger,  yet  at  home, 

A  land  of  dreams  I  roam. 

Is  this  the  wind,  the  soft  sea-wind 
That  stirred  thy  locks  of  brown  ? 

Are  these  the  rocks  whose  mosses  knew 
The  trail  of  thy  light  gown,  41 

Where  boy  and  girl  sat  down  ? 

I  see  the  gray  fort's  broken  wall,2 
The  boats  that  rock  below; 

And,  out  at  sea,  the  passing  sails 
We  saw  so  long  ago 
Rose-red  in  morning's  glow. 

The  freshness  of  the  early  time 

On  every  breeze  is  blown; 
As  glad  the  sea,  as  blue  the  sky,  —       51 

The  change  is  ours  alone; 

The  saddest  is  my  own. 

A  stranger  now,  a  world-worn  man, 

Is  he  who  bears  my  name; 
But  thou,  methinks,  whose  mortal  life 

Immortal  youth  became, 

Art  evermore  the  same. 

Thou  art  not  here,  thou  art  not  there, 
Thy  place  I  cannot  see; 

1  only  know  that  where  thou  art  6c 
The  blessed  angels  be, 

And  heaven  is  glad  for  thee. 

Forgive  me  if  the  evil  years 

Have  left  on  me  their  sign; 
Wash  out,  O  soul  so  beautiful, 

The  many  stains  of  mine 

In  tears  of  love  divine  ! 

2  The  place  that  was  in  the  mind  of  the  poet  when  he 
wrote  this  stanza  was  on  the  rocks  at  Marblehead, 
where  he  had  spent  an  early  morning  more  than  forty 
years  before.  ( Cambridge  E'dition  of  Whittier'g  Poems.) 


344 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


I  could  not  look  on  thee  and  live, 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side; 
The  vision  of  a  shining  one,  70 

The  white  and  heavenly  bride, 

Is  well  to  me  denied. 

But  turn  to  me  thy  dear  girl-face 

Without  the  angel's  crown, 
The  wedded  roses  of  thy  lips, 

Thy  loose  hair  rippling  down 

In  waves  of  golden  brown. 

Look  forth  once  more  through  space  and 
time, 

And  let  thy  sweet  shade  fall 
Jn  tenderest  grace  of  soul  and  form          80 

On  memory's  frescoed  wall, 

A  shadow,  and  yet  all ! 

Draw  near,  more  near,  forever  dear  ! 
Where'er  I  rest  or  roam, 

Or  in  the  city's  crowded  streets, 
Or  by  the  blown  sea  foam, 
The  thought  of  thee  is  home  ! 


At  breakfast  hour  the  singer  read 
The  city  news,  with  comment  wise, 

Like  one  who  felt  the  pulse  of  trade         90 
Beneath  his  finger  fall  and  rise. 

His  look,  his  air,  his  curt  speech,  told 
The  man  of  action,  not  of  books, 

To  whom  the  corners  made  in  gold 

And    stocks    were    more    than    seaside 
nooks. 

Of  life  beneath  the  life  confessed 
His  song  had  hinted  unawares; 

Of  flowers  in  traffic's  ledgers  pressed, 
Of  human  hearts  in  bulls  and  bears. 

But  eyes  in  vain  were  turned  to  watch     100 
That  face  so  hard  and  shrewd  and  strong; 

And  ears  in  vain  grew  sharp  to  catch 
The  meaning  of  that  morning  song. 

In  vain  some  sweet-voiced  querist  sought 
To  sound  him,  leaving  as  she  came; 

HfcT  baited  album  only  caught 
A  common,  nnromantic  name. 

No  word  betrayed  the  mystery  fine, 
That  trembled  on  the  singer's  tongue; 


He  came  and  went,  and  left  no  sign     1 10 
Behind  him  save  the  song  he  sung. 

1874. 


SUNSET   ON   THE   BEARCAMP 

A  GOLD  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem 

Of  hills  the  river  runs, 
As  down  its  long,  green  valley  falls 

The  last  of  summer's  suns. 
Along  its  tawny  gravel-bed 

Broad-flowing,  swift,  and  still, 
As  if  its  meadow  levels  felt 

The  hurry  of  the  hill, 
Noiseless  between  its  banks  of  green 

From  curve  to  curve  it  slips;  10 

The  drowsy  maple-shadows  rest 

Like  fingers  on  its  lips. 

A  waif  from  Carroll's  wildest  hills, 

Unstoried  and  unknown; 
The  ursine  legend  of  its  name 

Prowls  on  its  banks  alone. 
Yet  flowers  as  fair  its  slopes  adorn 

As  ever  Yarrow  knew, 
Or,  under  rainy  Irish  skies, 

By  Spenser's  Mulla  grew;  20 

And  through  the  gaps  of  leaning  trees 

Its  mountain  cradle  shows: 
The  gold  against  the  amethyst, 

The  green  against  the  rose. 

Touched  by  a  light  that  hath  no  name, 

A  glory  never  sung, 
Aloft  on  sky  and  mountain  wall 

Are  God's  great  pictures  hung. 
How  changed  the  summits  vast  and  old  ! 

No  longer  granite-browed,  30 

They  melt  in  rosy  mist;  the  rock 

Is  softer  than  the  cloud; 
The  valley  holds  its  breath;  no  leaf 

Of  all  its  elms  is  twirled: 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Seems  falling  on  the  world. 

The  pause  before  the  breaking  seals 

Of  mystery  is  this; 
Yon  miracle-play  of  night  and  day 

Makes  dumb  its  witnesses.  4t» 

What  unseen  altar  crowns  the  hills 

That  reach  up  stair  on  stair  ? 
What  eyes  look  through,  what  white  wings 
fan 

These  purple  veils  of  air  ? 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


345 


What  Presence  from  the  heavenly  heights 
To  those  of  earth  stoops  down  ? 

Not  vainly  Hellas  dreamed  of  gods 
On  Ida's  snowy  crown  ! 

Slow  fades  the  vision  of  the  sky, 

The  golden  water  pales,  50 

And  over  all  the  valley-land 

A  gray-winged  vapor  sails. 
I  go  the  common  way  of  all; 

The  sunset  fires  will  burn. 
The  flowers  will  blow,  the  river  flow, 

When  I  no  more  return. 
No  whisper  from  the  mountain  pine 

Nor  lapsing  stream  shall  tell 
The  stranger,  treading  where  I  tread, 

Of  him  who  loved  them  well.  60 

But  beauty  seen  is  never  lost, 

God's  colors  all  are  fast; 
The  glory  of  this  sunset  heaven 

Into  my  soul  has  passed, 
A  sense  of  gladness  unconfined 

To  mortal  date  or  cliine; 
As  the  soul  liveth,  it  shall  live 

Beyond  the  years  of  time. 
Beside  the  mystic  asphodels 

Shall  bloom  the  home-born  flowers,        70 
And  new  horizons  flush  and  glow 

With  sunset  hues  of  ours. 

Farewell  !  these  smiling  hills  must  wear 

Too  soon  their  wintry  frown, 
And     snow-cold    winds     from    off     them 
shake 

The  maple's  red  leaves  down. 
But  I  shall  see  a  summer  sun 

Still  setting  broad  and  low; 
The  mountain  slopes  shall  blush  and  bloom, 

The  golden  water  flow.  80 

A  lover's  claim  is  mine  on  all 

I  see  to  have  and  hold,  — 
The  rose-light  of  perpetual  hills, 

And  sunsets  never  cold  ! 
1875.  1876. 


LEXINGTON 

1775 

No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they. 
No  battle-joy  was  theirs,  who  set 
Against  the  alien  bayonet 

Their  homespun  breasts  in  that  old  day. 


Their  feet  had  trodden  peaceful  ways; 
They  loved  not  strife,  they  dreaded 

pain; 

They  saw  not,  what  to  us  is  plain, 
That  God   would  make  man's   wrath   his 
praise. 

No  seers  were  they,  but  simple  men; 

Its  vast  results  the  future  hid:  ic 

The  meaning  of  the  work  they  did 

Was  strange  and  dark  and  doubtful  then. 

Swift  as  their  summons  came  they  left 
The  plough  mid-furrow  standing  still, 
The    half -ground    corn    grist    in    the 
mill, 

The  spade  in  earth,  the  axe  in  cleft. 

They  went  where  duty  seemed  to  call, 
They  scarcely  asked  the  reason  why; 
They  only  knew  they  could  but  die, 

And  death  was  not  the  worst  of  all  !          2e 

Of  man  for  man  the  sacrifice, 

All  that  was  theirs  to  give,  they  gave. 

The  flowers   that   blossomed  from  their 

grave 
Have  sown  themselves  beneath  all  skies. 

Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And  shattered  slavery's  chain  as  well; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 

Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour. 

That  fateful  echo  is  not  dumb: 

The  nations  listening  to  its  sound  30 

Wait,  from  a  century's  vantage-ground, 

The  holier  triumphs  yet  to  come,  — 

The  bridal  time  of  Law  and  Love, 
The  gladness  of  the  world's  release, 
When,  war-sick,  at  the  feet  of  Peace 

The  hawk  shall  nestle  with  the  dove  !  — 

The  golden  age  of  brotherhood 

Unknown  to  other  rivalries 

Than  of  the  mild  humanities, 
And  gracious  interchange  of  good,  40 

When  closer  strand  shall  lean  to  strand, 
Till  meet,  beneath  saluting  flags, 
The  eagle  of  our  mountain-crags, 

The  lion  of  our  Motherland  ! 

1875.  1875, 


346 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


CENTENNIAL   HYMN1 


OUR  fathers'  God  !  from  out  whose  hand 
The  centuries  fall  like  grains  of  sand, 
We  meet  to-day,  united,  free, 
And  loyal  to  our  land  and  Thee, 
To  thank  Thee  for  the  era  done, 
And  trust  Thee  for  the  opening  one. 


Here,  where  of  old,  by  thy  design, 
The  fathers  spake  that  word  of  thine 
Whose  echo  is  the  glad  refrain 
Of  rended  bolt  and  falling  chain, 
To  grace  our  festal  time,  from  all 
The  zones  of  earth  our  guests  we  call. 


Be  with  us  while  the  New  World  greets 
The  Old  World  thronging  all  its  streets, 
Unveiling  all  the  triumphs  won 
By  art  or  toil  beneath  the  sun; 
And  unto  common  good  ordain 
This  rivalship  of  hand  and  brain. 


Thou,  who  hast  here  in  concord  furled 
The  war  flags  of  a  gathered  world,  2c 

Beneath  our  Western  skies  fulfil 
The  Orient's  mission  of  good-will, 
And,  freighted  with  love's  Golden  Fleece, 
Send  back  its  Argonauts  of  peace. 


For  art  and  labor  met  in  truce, 

For  beauty  made  the  bride  of  use, 

We  thank  Thee;  but,  withal,  we  crave 

The  austere  virtues  strong  to  save, 

The  honor  proof  to  place  or  gold, 

The  manhood  never  bought  nor  sold  !        30 


Oh    make    Thou    us,    through    centuries 

long, 

In  peace  secure,  in  justice  strong; 
Around  our  gift  of  freedom  draw 
The  safeguards  of  thy  righteous  law: 
And,  cast  in  some  diviner  mould, 
Let  the  new  cycle  shame  the  old  ! 
1876.  1876. 

1  Written  for  the  opening  of  the  International  Ex- 
hibition, Philadelphia,  May  10,  1876.  The  music  for 
the  hymn  was  written  by  John  K.  Paine,  and  may  be 
found  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  June,  1876. 

CWHTTTIER. ) 


THE    PROBLEM 


NOT  without  envy  Wealth  at  times  must 

look 
On  their   brown   strength  who   wield   the 

reaping-hook 
And   scythe,  or  at   the  forge-fire  shape 

the  plough 
Or  the  steel  harness  of  the  steeds  of  steam ; 

All  who,  by  skill  and  patience,  anyhow 
Make  service  noble,  and  the  earth  redeem 
From  savageness.     By  kingly  accolade 
Than  theirs  was  never  worthier  knighthood 

made. 
Well  for  them,  if,  while  demagogues  their 

vain 

And  evil  counsels  proffer,  they  maintain  10 
Their  honest   manhood   unseduced,  and 

wage 

No  war  with  Labor's  right  to  Labor's  gain 
Of  sweet  home-comfort,  rest  of  hand  and 

brain, 
And  softer  pillow  for  the  head  of  Age. 


And  well  for  Gain  if  it  ungrudging  yie' 
Labor   its   just   demand;   and   well 


•ields 
for 

Ease 

If  in  the  uses  of  its  own,  it  sees 
No  wrong   to   him  who  tills   its   pleasant 

fields 

And  spreads  the  table  of  its  luxuries. 
The  interests  of  the  rich  man  and  the  poor 
Are  one  and  same,  inseparable  evermore;  21 
And,  when  scant  wage  or  labor  fail  to  give 
Food,  shelter,  raiment,  wherewithal  to  live, 
Need  has  its  rights,  necessity  its  claim. 
Yea,  even  self -wrought  misery  and  shame 
Test  well  the   charity  suffering  long  and 

kind. 
The  home-pressed  question  of  the  age  can 

find 

No  answer  in  the  catch-words  of  the  blind 
Leaders  of  blind.     Solution  there  is  none 
Save  in  the  Golden  Rule  of  Christ  alone.  3o 
1876  ?  (1878.) 


RESPONSE2 

BESIDE  that  milestone  where  the  level  sun, 
Nigh  unto  setting,  sheds  his  last,  low  rays 

1  Written  in  response  to  the  many  tokens  of  esteem 
which  Whittier  received  on  his  seventieth  birthday. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


347 


On  word  and  work  irrevocably  done. 

Life's  blending  threads  of  good  and.  ill  out- 
spun, 

I  hear,  O  friends  !  your  words  of  cheer  and 
praise, 

Half  doubtful  if  myself  or  otherwise. 

Like  him  who,  in  the  old  Arabian  joke, 

A  beggar  slept  and  crowned  Caliph  woke. 

Thanks  not  the  less.  With  not  uuglad  sur- 
prise 

I  see  my  life-work  through  your  partial 
eyes; 

Assured,   in    giving  to    my   home-taught 


A  higher  value  than  of  right  belongs, 
You    do   but    read   between    the    written 

lines 

The  finer  grace  of  unfulfilled  designs. 
1877.  1877. 


AT   EVENTIDE 

POOR  and  inadequate  the  shadow-play 
Of  gain   and     loss,  of    waking   and   of 

dream, 
Against  life's  solemn  background  needs 

must  seem 

At  this  late  hour.  Yet,  not  unthankfully, 
I  call  to  mind  the  fountains  by  the  way, 
The  breath  of  flowers,  the  bird-song  on  the 

spray, 
Dear  friends,  sweet  human  loves,  the  joy 

of  giving 

And  of  receiving,   the  great  boon   of  liv- 
ing 

In  grand  historic  years  when  Liberty 
Had  need  of  word  and  work,  quick  sympa- 
thies 

For  all  who  fail  and  suffer,  song's  relief, 
Nature's  uncloying  loveliness;  and  chief, 
The   kind    restraining   hand   of    Provi- 
dence, 

The  inward  witness,  the  assuring  sense 
Of  an  Eternal  Good  which  overlies 
The  sorrow  of  the  world,  Love  which  out- 
lives 
All  sin  and  wrong,  Compassion  which  for- 


To  the  uttermost,  and  Justice  whose  clear 
eyes 

Through  lapse  and  failure  look  to  the  in- 
tent, 

And  judge  our  frailty  by  the  life  we  meant. 

1878. 


THE   TRAILING   ARBUTUS 

I  WANDERED  lonely  where  the  pine-trees 

made 
Against  the  bitter  East  their  barricade, 

And,  guided  by  its  sweet 
Perfume,  I  found,  within  a  narrow  dell, 
The   trailing   spring   flower   tinted   like  a 

shell 
Amid  dry  leaves  and  mosses  at  my  feet. 

From  under  dead  boughs,  for  whose  loss 

the  pines 
Moaned  ceaseless  overhead,  the  blossoming 

vines 

Lifted  their  glad  surprise, 
While  yet  the  bluebird  smoothed  in  leafless 

trees 

His  feathers  ruffled  by  the  chill  sea-breeze, 
And   snow-drifts    lingered   under   April 

skies. 

As,  pausing,  o'er  the  lonely  flower  I  bent, 
I  thought  of  lives  thus  lowly,  clogged  and 

pent, 

Which  yet  find  room, 
Through   care  and   cumber,  coldness   and 

decay, 

To  lend  a  sweetness  to  the  ungenial  day, 
And  make  the  sad  earth  happier  for  their 
bloom. 

1879? 


OUR   AUTOCRAT1 

His  laurels  fresh  from  song  and  lay, 
Romance,  art,  science,  rich  in  all, 

And  young  of  heart,  how  dare  we  say 
We  keep  his  seventieth  festival  ? 

No  sense  is  here  of  loss  or  lack; 

Before  his  sweetness  and  his  light 
The  dial  holds  its  shadow  back, 

The  charmed  hours  delay  their  flight. 

His  still  the  keen  analysis 

Of  men  and  moods,  electric  wit,         ie 
Free  play  of  mirth,  and  tenderness 

To  heal  the  slightest  wound  from  it. 

And  his  the  pathos  touching  all 

Life's  sins  and  sorrows  and  regrets, 

1  Read  at  the  breakfast  given  in  honor  of  Holmes'* 
eventieth  birthday. 


348 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Its  hopes  and  fears,  its  final  call 
And  rest  beneath  the  violets. 

His  sparkling  surface  scarce  betrays 
The  thoughtful  tide  beneath  it  rolled, 

The  wisdom  of  the  latter  days, 

And  tender  memories  of  the  old.  20 

What  shapes  and  fancies,  grave  or  gay, 
Before  us  at  his  bidding  come  ! 

The    Treadmill    tramp,    the    One -Horse 

Shay, 
The  dumb  despair  of  Elsie's  doom  ! 

The  tale  of  Avis  and  the  Maid, 

The  plea  for  lips  that  cannot  speak, 

The  holy  kiss  that  Iris  laid 

On  Little  Boston's  pallid  cheek! 

Long  may  he  live  to  sing  for  us 

His  sweetest  songs  at  evening  time,       30 
And,  like  his  Chambered  Nautilus, 

To  holier  heights  of  beauty  climb  ! 

Though  now  unnumbered  guests  surround 
The  table  that  he  rules  at  will, 

Its  Autocrat,  however  crowned, 
Is  but  our  friend  and  comrade  still. 

The  world  may  keep  his  honored  name, 
The  wealth  of  all  his  varied  powers; 

A  stronger  claim  has  love  than  fame, 
And  he  himself  is  only  ours  !  40 

1879.  1879. 


GARRISON1 

THE  storm  and  peril  overpast, 

The  hounding  hatred  shamed  and  still, 
Go,  soul  of  freedom  !  take  at  last 

The  place  which  thou  alone  canst  fill. 

Confirm  the  lesson  taught  of  old  — 
Life  saved  for  self  is  lost,  while  they 

Who  lose  it  in  his  service  hold 
The  lease  of  God's  eternal  day. 

Not  for  thyself,  but  for  the  slave 

Thy  words  of  thunder  shook  the  world;  10 

1  My  poetical  service  in  the  cause  of  freedom  is  almost 
synchronous  with  his  life  of  devotion  to  the  same  cause. 

SetrPickard's  Life  of  Whittier,  vol.  ii,  p.  668 ;  and  the 
article  on  Garrison  in  Whittier's  Prose  Works,  vol.  iii, 


No  selfish  griefs  or  hatred  gave 

The  strength  wherewith  thy  bolts  were 
hurled. 

From  lips  that  Sinai's  trumpet  blew 
We  heard  a  tender  under  song; 

Thy  very  wrath  from  pity  grew, 

From  love  of  man  thy  hate  of  wrong. 

Now  past  and  present  are  as  one; 

The  life  below  is  life  above; 
Thy  mortal  years  have  but  begun 

Thy  immortality  of  love.  20 

With  somewhat  of  thy  lofty  faith 
We  lay  the  outworn  garment  by, 

Give  death  but  what  belongs  to  death, 
And  life  the  life  that  cannot  die  ! 

Not  for  a  soul  like  thine  the  calm 
Of  selfish  ease  and  joys  of  sense ; 

But  duty,  more  than  crown  or  palm, 
Its  own  exceeding  recompense. 

Go  up  and  on  !  thy  day  well  done, 

Its  morning  promise  well  fulfilled,         30 

Arise  to  triumphs  yet  unwon, 

To  holier  tasks  that  God  has  willed. 

Go,  leave  behind  thee  all  that  mars 
The  work  below  of  man  for  man; 

With  the  white  legions  of  the  stars 
Do  service  such  as  angels  can. 

Wherever  wrong  shall  right  deny 
Or  suffering  spirits  urge  their  plea, 

Be  thine  a  voice  to  smite  the  lie, 

A  hand  to  set  the  captive  free  !  40 

1879.  1879. 


THE  LOST  OCCASION3 

SOME  die  too  late  and  some  too  soon, 

At  early  morning,  heat  of  noon, 

Or  the  chill  evening  twilight.   Thou, 

Whom  the  rich  heavens  did  so  endow 

With  eyes  of  power  and  Jove's  own  brow, 

With  all  the  massive  strength  that  fills 

Thy  home-horizon's  granite  hills, 

With  rarest  gifts  of  heart  and  head 

From  manliest  stock  inherited, 

New  England's  stateliest  type  of  man,     10 

In  port  and  speech  Olympian; 

*  See  the  note  on  '  Ichabod,'  p.  282. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


349 


Whom  no  one  met,  at  first,  but  took 

A  second  awed  and  wondering  look 

(As  turned,  perchance,  the  eyes  of  Greece 

On  Phidias'  unveiled  masterpiece) ; 

Whose  words  in  simplest  homespun  clad, 

The  Saxon  strength  of  Csedmon's  had, 

With  power  reserved  at  need  to  reach 

The  Roman  forum's  loftiest  speech, 

Sweet  with  persuasion,  eloquent  20 

In  passion,  cool  in  argument, 

Or,  ponderous,  falling  on  thy  foes 

As  fell  the  Norse  god's  hammer  blows, 

Crushing  as  if  with  Talus'  flail 

Through  Error's  logic-woven  mail, 

And  failing  only  when  they  tried 

The  adamant  of  the  righteous  side,  — 

Thou,  foiled  in  aim  and  hope,  bereaved 

Of  old  friends,  by  the  new  deceived, 

Too  soon  for  us,  too  soon  for  thee,  30 

Beside  thy  lonely  Northern  sea, 

Where  long  and  low  the  marsh-lands  spread, 

Laid  wearily  down  thy  august  head. 

Thou  shouldst  have  lived  to  feel  below 

Thy  feet  Disunion's  fierce  upthrow; 

The  late-sprung  mine  that  underlaid 

Thy  sad  concessions  vainly  made. 

Thou  shouldst  have  seen  from  Sumter's  wall 

The  star-flag  of  the  Union  fall, 

And  armed  rebellion  pressing  on  40 

The  broken  lines  of  Washington  ! 

No  stronger  voice  than  thine  had  then 

Called  out  the  utmost  might  of  men, 

To  make  the  Union's  charter  free 

And  strengthen  law  by  liberty. 

How  had  that  stern  arbitrament 

To  thy  gray  age  youth's  vigor  lent, 

Shaming  ambition's  paltry  prize 

Before  thv  disillusioned  eyes; 

Breaking  the  spell  about  thee  wound         50 

Like  the  green  withes  that  Samson  bound; 

Redeeming  in  one  effort  grand, 

Thyself  and  thy  imperilled  land  ! 

Ah,  cruel  fate,  that  closed  to  thee, 

O  sleeper  by  the  Northern  sea, 

The  gates  of  opportunity  ! 

God  fills  the  gaps  of  human  need, 

Each  crisis  brings  its  word  and  deed. 

Wise  men  and  strong  we  did  not  lack; 

But  still,  with  memory  turning  back,         60 

In  the  dark  hours  we  thought  of  thee, 

And  thy  lone  grave  beside  the  sea. 

Above  that  grave  the  east  winds  blow, 

And  from  the  marsh-lands  drifting  slow 

The  sea-fog  comes,  with  evermore 


The  wave-wash  of  a  lonely  shore, 

And  sea-bird's  melancholy  cry, 

As  Nature  fain  would  typify 

The  sadness  of  a  closing  scene, 

The  loss  of  that  which  should  have  been.   70 

But,  where  thy  native  mountains  bare 

Their  foreheads  to  diviner  air, 

Fit  emblem  of  enduring  fame, 

One  lofty  summit  keeps  thy  name. 

For  thee  the  cosmic  forces  did 

The  rearing  of  that  pyramid, 

The  prescient  ages  shaping  with 

Fire,  flood,  and  frost  thy  monolith. 

Sunrise  and  sunset  lay  thereon 

With  hands  of  light  their  benison,  to 

The  stars  of  midnight  pause  to  set 

Their  jewels  in  its  coronet. 

And  evermore  that  mountain  mass 

Seems  climbing  from  the  shadowy  pass 1 

To  light,  as  if  to  manifest 

Thy  nobler  self,  thy  life  at  best ! 


STORM  ON  LAKE  ASQUAM 

A  CLOUD,  like  that  the  old-time  Hebrew  saw 
On  Carmel  prophesying  rain,  began 
To  lift  itself  o'er  wooded  Cardigan, 

Growing  and  blackening.    Suddenly,  a  flaw 

Of  chill  wind  menaced;  then  a  strong  blast 

beat 
Down  the  long  valley's  murmuring  pines, 

and  woke 
The  noon-dream  of  the  sleeping  lake,  and 

broke 

Its  smooth  steel  mirror  at  the  mountains' 
feet. 

Thunderous  and  vast,  a  fire-veined  darkness 

swept 
Over   the   rough  pine-bearded   Asquam 

range; 
A   wraith    of    tempest,    wonderful    and 

strange, 
From  peak  to  peak  the  cloudy  giant  stepped. 

One  moment,  as  if  challenging  the  storm, 
Chocorua's  tall,  defiant  sentinel 
Looked  from  his  watch-tower;  then  the 
shadow  fell, 

And  the  wild  rain-drift  blotted  out  his  form. 

1  Mt.  Webster  stands  next  the  White  Mountain  Notch, 
at  the  southern  end  of  the  Presidential  Range. 


35° 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And  over  all  the  still  unhidden  sun, 

Weaving  its  light  through   slant-blown 

veils  of  rain, 
Smiled  on  the  trouble,  as  hope  smiles  on 

C» 
the  tumult  and  the  strife  were 
done, 

With  one  foot  on  the   lake,  and   one  on 

land, 
Framing    within    his    crescent's    tinted 

streak 

A  far-off  picture  of  the  Melvin  peak, 
Spent  broken  clouds  the  rainbow's  angel 
spanned. 

1882. 


THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN 

LONGFELLOW 

WITH  a  glory  of  winter  sunshine 

Over  his  locks  of  gray, 
In  the  old  historic  mansion 

He  sat  on  his  last  birthday; 

With    his    books    and    his    pleasant   pic- 
tures, 

And  his  household  and  his  kin, 
While  a  sound  as  of  myriads  singing 

From  far  and  near  stole  in. 

It  came  from  his  own  fair  city, 

From  the  prairie's  boundless  plain,        10 
From  the  Golden  Gate  of  sunset, 

And  the  cedarn  woods  of  Maine. 

And  his  heart  grew  warm  within  him, 
And  his  moistening  eyes  grew  dim, 

For  he  knew  that  his  country's  children 
Were  singing  the  songs  of  him : 

The  lays  of  his  life's  glad  morning, 
The  psalms  of  his  evening  time, 

Whose  echoes  shall  float  forever 

On  the  winds  of  every  clime.  20 

All  their  beaiitif  ul  consolations, 

Sent  forth  like  birds  of  cheer, 
Came  flocking  back  to  his  windows, 

And  sang  in  the  Poet's  ear. 

Grateful,  but  solemn  and  tender, 
The  music  rose  and  fell 


With  a  joy  akin  to  sadness 
And  a  greeting  like  farewell. 

With  a  sense  of  awe  he  listened 

To  the  voices  sweet  and  young;  30 

The  last  of  earth  and  the  first  of  heaven 

Seemed  in  the  songs  they  sung. 

And  waiting  a  little  longer 

For  the  wonderful  change  to  come, 

He  heard  the  Summoning  Angel, 
Who  calls  God's  children  home  ! 

And  to  him  in  a  holier  welcome 
Was  the  mystical  meaning  given 

Of  the  words  of  the  blessed  Master: 

'  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ! '    40 

1882. 

AN    AUTOGRAPH 

I  WRITE  my  name  as  one, 
On  sands  by  waves  o'errun 
Or  winter's  frosted  pane, 
Traces  a  record  vain. 

Oblivion's  blankness  claims 
Wiser  and  better  names, 
And  well  my  own  mav  pass 
As  from  the  strand  or  glass. 

Wash  on,  O  waves  of  time  ! 
Melt,  noons,  the  frosty  rime  i 
Welcome  the  shadow  vast, 
The  silence  that  shall  last ! 

When  I  and  all  who  know 
And  love  me  vanish  so, 
What  harm  to  them  or  me 
Will  the  lost  memory  be  ? 

If  any  words  of  mine, 

Through  right  of  life  divine, 

Remain,  what  matters  it 

Whose  hand  the  message  writ  ?         zc 

Why  should  the  '  crowner's  quest ' 
Sit  on  my  worst  or  best  ? 
Why  should  the  showman  claim 
The  poor  ghost  of  my  name  ? 

Yet,  as  when  dies  a  sound 
Its  spectre  lingers  round, 
Haply  my  spent  life  will 
Leave  some  faint  echo  still. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


351 


A  whisper  giving  breath 
Of  praise  or  blame  to  death, 
Soothing  or  saddening  such 
As  loved  the  living  much. 

Therefore  with  yearnings  vain 
And  fond  I  still  would  fain 
A  kindly  judgment  seek, 
A  tender  thought  bespeak. 

And,  while  my  words  are  read, 
Let  this  at  least  be  said: 
'  Whate'er  his  life's  defeatures, 
He  loved  his  fellow-creatures. 

'  If,  of  the  Law's  stone  table, 
To  hold  he  scarce  was  able 
The  first  great  precept  fast, 
He  kept  for  man  the  last. 

'  Through  mortal  lapse  and  dulness 
What  lacks  the  Eternal  Fulness, 
If  still  our  weakness  can 
Love  Him  in  loving  man  ? 

'  Age  brought  him  no  despairing 
Of  the  world's  future  faring; 
In  human  nature  still 
He  found  more  good  than  ill. 

'  To  all  who  dumbly  suffered, 
His  tongue  and  pen  he  offered; 
His  life  was  not  his  own, 
Nor  lived  for  self  alone. 

'  Hater  of  din  and  riot 
He  lived  in  days  unquiet; 
And,  lover  of  all  beauty, 
Trod  the  hard  ways  of  duty. 

'  He  meant  no  wrong  to  any 
He  sought  the  good  of  many, 
Yet  knew  both  sin  and  folly,  — 
May  God  forgive  him  wholly ! ' 


UNITY1 

FORGIVE,  O  Lord,  our  severing  ways, 

The  separate  altars  that  we  raise, 

The  varying  tongues  that  speak  thy  praise  ! 

1  This  poem  was  written  by  Mr.  Whittier  while  he 
was  a  guest  at  the  Asquam  House.  A  fair  was  being 
held  in  aid  of  the  little  Episcopal  church  at  Holderness, 
and  people  at  the  hotel  were  asked  to  contribute. 
These  lines  were  Whittier's  contribution,  and  the  ladies 


Suffice  it  now.    In  time  to  be 
Shall  one  great  temple  rise  to  Thee, 
Thy  church  our  broad  humanity. 

White    flowers    of    love    its    walls    shall 

climb, 

Sweet  bells  of  peace  shall  ring  its  chime, 
Its  days  shall  all  be  holy  time. 

The    hymn,    long    sought,    shall    then    be 

heard, 

The  music  of  the  world's  accord, 
Confessing  Christ,  the  inward  word  ! 

That  song  shall  swell  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  faith,  one  love,  one  hope  restore 
The  seamless  garb  that  Jesus  wore  ! 

1883. 

SWEET    FERN 

THE  subtle  power  in  perfume  found 
Nor  priest  nor  sibyl  vainly  learned; 

On  Grecian  shrine  or  Aztec  mound 
No  censer  idly  burned. 

That  power  the  old-time  worships  knew, 
The  Corybantes'  frenzied  dance, 

The  Pythian  priestess  swooning  through 
The  wonderland  of  trance. 

And  Nature  holds,  in  wood  and  field, 

Her  thousand  sunlit  censers  still;  10 

To  spells  of  flower  and  shrub  we  yield 
Against  or  with  our  will. 

I  climbed  a  hill  path  strange  and  new 
With  slow  feet,  pausing  at  each  turn; 

A  sudden  waft  of  west  wind  blew 
The  breath  of  the  sweet  fern. 

* 

That  fragrance  from  my  vision  swept 
The  alien  landscape;  in  its  stead, 

Up  fairer  hills  of  youth  I  stepped, 

As  light  of  heart  as  tread.  20 

I  saw  my  boyhood's  lakelet  shine 

Once    more    through  rifts  of  woodland 
shade; 

I  knew  my  river's  winding  line 
By  morning  mist  betrayed. 

in  charge  of  the  fair  received  ten  dollars  for  them. 
They  were  written  in  an  album  now  in  the  possession 
of  a  niece  of  Whittier's  Philadelphia  friend,  Joseph 
Liddon  Pennock.  (PICKARD.) 


352 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


With  me  June's  freshness,  lapsing  brook, 
Murmurs  of  leaf  and  bee,  the  call 

Of  birds,  and  one  in  voice  and  look 
In  keeping  with  them  all. 

A  fern  beside  the  way  we  went 

She  plucked,  and,  smiling,  held  it  up,  30 
While  from  her  hand  the  wild,  sweet 
scent 

I  drank  as  from  a  cup. 

O  potent  witchery  of  smell ! 

The  dust-dry  leaves  to  life  return, 
A.nd    she    who    plucked    them   owns   the 
spell 

And  lifts  her  ghostly  fern. 

Or  sense  or  spirit  ?     Who  shall  say 

What  touch  the  chord  of  memory  thrills  ? 

It  passed,  and  left  the  August  day 

Ablaze  on  lonely  hills.  40 

1884. 


SAMUEL  J.   TILDEN 

GREYSTONE,    AUGUST    4,    1 886 

ONCE  more,  O  all-adjusting  Death  ! 

The  nation's  Pantheon  opens  wide; 
Once  more  a  common  sorrow  saith 

A  strong,  wise  man  has  died. 

Faults  doubtless  had  he.    Had  we  not 
Our  own,  to  question  and  asperse 

The  worth  we  doubted  or  forgot 
Until  beside  his  hearse  ? 

Ambitious,  cautious,  yet  the  man 

To    strike    down    fraud    with   resolute 
hand; 

A  patriot,  if  a  partisan, 
He  loved  his  native  land. 

So  let  the  mourning  bells  be  rung, 
The  banner  droop  its  folds  half  way, 

And  while  the  public  pen  and  tongue 
Their  fitting  tribute  pay, 

Shall  we  not  vow  above  his  bier 

To  set  our  feet  on  party  lies, 
And  wound  no  more  a  living  ear 

With  words  that  Death  denies  ? 


THE   BARTHOLDI    STATUE 
1886 

THE  land,  that,  from  the  rule  of  kings, 
In  freeing  us,  itself  made  free, 

Our  Old  World  Sister,  to  us  brings 
Her  sculptured  Dream  of  Liberty: 

Unlike  the  shapes  on  Egypt's  sands 
Uplifted  by  the  toil-worn  slave, 

On  Freedom's  soil  with  freemen's  hands 
We  rear  the  symbol  free  hands  gave. 

O  France,  the  beautiful  !  to  thee 
Once  more  a  debt  of  love  we  owe : 

In  peace  beneath  thy  Colors  Three, 
We  hail  a  later  Rochambeau  ! 

Rise,  stately  Symbol  !  holding  forth 
Thy  light  and  hope  to  all  who  sit 

In  chains  and  darkness  !    Belt  the  earth 
With  watch-fires  from  thy  torch  uplit  ! 

Reveal  the  primal  mandate  still 

Which  Chaos  heard  and  ceased  to  be, 

Trace  on  mid-air  th'  Eternal  Will 
In  signs  of  fire :    '  Let  man  be  free  ! ' 

Shine  far,  shine  free,  a  guiding  light 
To  Reason's  ways  and  Virtue's  aim, 

A  lightning-flash  the  wretch  to  smite 
Who  shields  his  license  with  thy  name  ! 

1886.  1887- 


TO    E.    C.    S.1 

POET  and  friend  of  poets,  if  thy  glass 
Detects     no    flower   in    winter's    tuft    of 


Let  this  slight  token  of  the  debt  I  owe 
Outlive    for    thee     December's     frozen 

day, 
And,    like     the    arbutus    budding    under 

snow, 
Take  bloom  and   fragrance  from  some 

morn  of  May 
When  he  who  gives  it  shall  have  gone  the 

way 

Where  faith  shall  see  and  reverent  trust 
shall  know. 

1890. 

1  The  dedication  of  Whittier's  last  volume,  At  Sun- 
down, to  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


353 


THE   LAST   EVE   OF   SUMMER 

SUMMER'S  last  sun  nigh  unto  setting  shines 
Through  yon  columnar  pines, 

And   on  the   deepening   shadows    of    the 

lawn 
Its  golden  lines  are  drawn. 

Dreaming  of  long  gone  summer  days  like 

this, 

Feeling  the  wind's  soft  kiss, 
Grateful   and   glad   that   failing    ear   and 

sight 
Have  still  their  old  delight, 

I  sit  alone,  and  watch  the  warm,  sweet 
day 

Lapse  tenderly  away ;  10 

And,  wistful,  with  a  feeling  of  forecast, 

I  ask,  '  Is  this  the  last  ? 

'  Will  nevermore  for  me  the  seasons  run 
Their  round,  and  will  the  sun 

Of  ardent  summers  yet  to  come  forget 
For  me  to  rise  and  set  ? ' 

Thou  shouldst  be  here,  or  I  should  be  with 

thee 

Wherever  thou  mayst  be, 
Lips  mute,  hands  clasped,  in   silences  of 

speech 
Each  answering  unto  each.  20 

For  this  still  hour,  this  sense  of  mystery 
far 

Beyond  the  evening  star, 
No  words  outworn  suffice  on  lip  or  scroll: 

The  soul  would  fain  with  soul 

Wait,  while  these  few  swift-passing  days 
fulfil 

The  wise-disposing  Will, 
And,  in  the  evening  as  at  morning,  trust 

The  All-Mercifid  and  Just. 

The  solemn  joy  that  soul-communion  feels 
Immortal  life  reveals;  3o 

And  human  love,  its  prophecy  and  sign, 
Interprets  love  divine. 

Come  then,  in  thought,  if  that  alone  may  be, 
O  friend  !  and  bring  with  thee 

Thy  calm  assurance  of  transcendent  Spheres 
And  the  Eternal  Years ! 

1890.  1890. 


JAMES    RUSSELL  LOWELL 

FROM  purest  wells  of  English  undefiled 
None  deeper    drank    than  he,    the    New 

World's  child, 
Who  in  the  language  of  their  farm-fields 

spoke 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  New  England  folk, 
Shaming  a  monstrous  wrong.    The  world- 
wide laugh 
Provoked  thereby  might  well  have  shaken 

half 

The  walls  of  Slavery  down,  ere  yet  the  ball 
And  mine  of  battle  overthrew  them  all. 
1891.  1891. 


TO  OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

8TH    MO.    29TH,    1892 

AMONG  the  thousands  who  with  hail  and 
cheer 

Will  welcome  thy  new  year, 
How  few  of  all  have  passed,  as  thou  and  I, 

So  many  milestones  by  ! 

We  have  grown  old  together  ;  we  have 
seen, 

Our  youth  and  age  between, 
Two  generations  leave  us,  and  to-day    . 

We  with  the  third  hold  way, 

Loving  and  loved.  If  thought  must  back- 
ward run 

To  those  who,  one  by  one,  '  10 

In  the  great  silence  and  the  dark  beyond 

Vanished  with  farewells  fond, 

Unseen,  not  lost ;  our  grateful    memories 

still  »• 

Their  vacant  places  fill, 
And  with  the  full-voiced  greeting  of  new 

friends 
A  tenderer  whisper  blends. 

Linked  close  in  a  pathetic  brotherhood 

Of  mingled  ill  and  good, 
Of  joy  and  grief,  of  grandeur  and  of  shame, 

For  pity  more  than  blame,  —  20 

The  gift  is  thine  the  weary  world  to  make 
More  cheerful  for  thy  sake, 

Soothing  the  ears  its  Miserere  pains, 
With  the  old  Hellenic  strains, 


354 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Lighting  the  sullen  face  of  discontent 
With  smiles  for  blessing  sent. 

Enough  of  selfish  wailing  has  been  had, 
Thank  God  !  for  notes  more  glad. 

Life  is  indeed  no  holiday;  therein 

Are  want,  and  woe,  and  sin,  3o 

Death  and  its  nameless  fears,  and  over  all 
Our  pitying  tears  must  fall. 

Sorrow  is  real;  but  the  counterfeit 

Which  folly  brings  to  it, 
We  need  thy  wit  and  wisdom  to  resist, 

O  rarest  Optimist ! 

Thy  hand,  old  friend  !   the  service  of  our 
days, 

In  differing  moods  and  ways 
May  prove  to  those  who  follow  in  our  train 

Not  valueless  nor  vain.  4o 


Far  off,  and  faint  as  echoes  of  a  dream, 
The  songs  of  boyhood  seem, 

Yet  on  our  autumn  boughs,  .unflown  with 

spring, 
The  evening  thrushes  sing. 

The  hour  draws  near,  howe'er  delayed  and 

late, 

When  at  the  Eternal  Gate 
We  leave  the  words  and  works  we  call  our 

own, 
And  lift  void  hands  alone 

For    love     to     fill.      Our    nakedness     of 

soul 

Brings  to  that  Gate  no  toll;  50 

Giftless  we  come  to  Him,  who  all  things 

gives, 

And  live  because  He  lives. 
1892.  1892. 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES 


OLD    IRONSIDES1 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 
Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 

1  One  genuine  lyric  outburst,  however,  done  in  this 
year  of  the  law.  almost  made  him  in  a  way  actually 
famous.  The  frigate  Constitution,  historic  indeed,  but 
old  and  unseaworthy,  then  lying  in  the  navy  yard  at 
Cl:arlestown,  was  condemned  by  the  Navy  Department 
to  be  destroyed.  Holmes  read  this  in  a  newspaper  par- 
agraph, and  it  stirred  him.  On  a  scrap  of  paper,  with 
a  lead  pencil,  he  rapidly  shaped  the  impetuous  stanzas 
of  '  Old  Ironsides,'  and  sent  them  to  the  Daily  Adver- 
tiser, of  Boston.  Fast  and  far  they  travelled  through 
the  newspaper  press  of  the  country  ;  they  were  even 
printed  in  hand-bills  and  circulated  about  the  streets 
of  Washington.  An  occurrence,  which  otherwise  would 
probably  have  passed  unnoticed,  now  stirred  a  national 
indignation.  The  astonished  Secretary  made  haste  to 
retrace  a  step  which  he  had  taken  quite  innocently  in 
the  way  of  business.  The  Constitution's  tattered  en- 
sign was  not  torn  down.  The  ringing,  spirited  verses 
gave  the  gallant  ship  a  reprieve,  which  satisfied  senti- 
mentality, and  a  large  part  of  the  people  of  the  United 
States  had  heard  of  O.  W.  Holmes,  law  student  at 
Cambridge,  who  had  only  come  of  age  a  month  ago. 
(Moise's  Life  of  Holmes,  vol.  i,  pp.  79,  80.) 

TKis  is  probably  the  only  case  in  which  a  government 
policy  was  changed  by  the  verses  of -a  college  student. 

Tke  frigate  Constitution  was  launched  in  1797,  first 
servud  in  the  war  against  the  pirates  in  the  Mediterra- 
nean, and  made  a  brilliant  record  in  the  war  of  1812. 
In  I,'j34  she  was  almost  entirely  rebuilt,  and  continued 
in  cwimission  until  1881.  From  that  time  she  was  kppt 
at  ttoe  navy  yard  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  until  in  1897 
she  was  taken  to  the  Charlestown  Navy  Yard  for  the 
celebration  of  the  centenary  of  her  launching. 


Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep. 
And  there  should  be  her  grave; 

Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 
Set  every  threadbare  sail, 

And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 
1830.  183C 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTER- 
MAN  2 

IT  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the 
river-side, 

His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his  boat 
was  on  the  tide; 

The  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  that  was  so 
straight  and  slim, 

Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,  right  oppo- 
site to  him. 

It  was  the  pensive  oysterman  that  saw  a 

lovely  maid, 
Upon  a  moonlight  evening,  a-sitting  in  the 

shade; 
He  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief,  as  much 

as  if  to  say, 
'  I  'm  wide  awake,  young  oysterman,  and  all 

the  folks  away.' 

Then  up  arose  the  oysterman,  arid  to  him- 
self said  he, 

'  I  guess  I  '11  leave  the  skiff  at  home,  for 
fear  that  folks  should  see; 

I  read  it  in  the  story-book,  that,  for  to  kiss 
his  dear, 

Leander  swam  the  Hellespont,  —  and  I  will 
swim  this  here.' 


2  Except  for  the  ballad  of  '  Old  Ironsides,'  the  '  Met- 
rical  Essay  on  Poetry '  written  for  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa, 
meeting  in  1836,  and  a  few  other  occasional  poems, 
Holmes  wrote  little  but  humorous  verse  from  1830  to 
1848  ;  most  of  this  he  excluded  from  the  later  editions 
of  his  work.  '  The  Ballad  of  the  Oystermau,'  and  '  The 
Sppctre  Pig.'  are  the  best  of  his  parodies  on  the  pseudo- 
ballads  so  popular  at  that  time. 


356 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


And   he   has   leaped  into  the  waves,  and 

crossed  the  shining  stream, 
And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank,  all  in 

the  moonlight  gleam; 
Oh  there  were  kisses  sweet   as  dew,  and 

words  as  soft  as  rain,  — 
But  they  have  heard  her  father's  step,  and 

in  he  leaps  again  ! 

Out  spoke  the  ancient   fisherman,  —  '  Oh, 

what  was  that,  my  daughter  ?  ' 
*  'T  was  nothing  but  a  pebble,  sir,  I  threw 

into  the  water.' 
'  And  what  is  that,  pray  tell  me,  love,  that 

paddles  off  so  fast  ?  ' 
'  It 's  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that 's  been 

a-swimming  past.' 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  — '  Now 

bring  me  my  harpoon  ! 
I  '11  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix  the 

fellow  soon.' 
Down   fell  that  pretty  innocent,  as  falls  a 

snow-white  lamb, 
Her  hair  drooped  round  her  pallid  cheeks, 

like  seaweed  on  a  clam. 

Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones !  she  waked 
not  from  her  swound, 

And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and  in 
the  waves  was  drowned; 

But  Fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in  pity 
of  their  woe, 

And  now  they  keep  an  oyster-shop  for  mer- 
maids down  below. 

1830? 


THE    HEIGHT   OF  THE   RIDICU- 
LOUS 

I  WROTE  some  lines  once  on  a  time 
In  wondrous  merry  mood, 

And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 
They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 

I  laughed  as  I  would  die ; 
Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 

A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him  10 

To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb  ! 


'  These  to  the  printer,'  I  exclaimed, 
And,  in  my  humorous  way, 

I  added  (as  a  trifling  jest),      : 

'  There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay.' 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched, 
And  saw  him  peep  within; 

At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 

Was  all  upon  the  grin.  20 

He  read  the  next;  the  grin  grew  broad, 
And  shot  from  ear  to  ear; 

He  read  the  third;  a  chuckling  noise 
I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth;  he  broke  into  a  roar; 

The  fifth;  his  waistband  split; 
The  sixth;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 
I  watched  that  wretched  man,        30 

And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 
As  funny  as  I  can. 

1830. 


TO  AN  INSECT 

I  LOVE  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 

Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 

Thou  pretty  Katydid  ! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks,  — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they,  — 
Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 

In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid  ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill  i 

That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes 

So  petulant  and  shrill; 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree,  — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids,  — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea  ? 

Oh,  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live, 

And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 
And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked,  too  ?  a 

Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


357 


1  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

Dear  me  !   I  '11  tell  you  all  about 

My  fuss  with  little  Jane, 
And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locks  of  black, 

Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue,  —  30 

Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 

What  did  poor  Katy  do  ? 

Ah  no  !  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still, 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  mossy  base 

And  thunder  down  the  hill, 
Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word,  to  tell 
The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 

Whose  name  she  knows  so  well.     4o 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race  ! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun, 
Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice, 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid, 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 

1831. 


L'INCONNUE 

Is  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair  ? 

Such  should,  methinks,  its  music  be ; 
The  sweetest  name  that  mortals  bear 

Were  best  befitting  thee; 
And  she  to  whom  it  once  was  given, 
Was  half  of  earth  and  half  of  heaven. 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  see  thy  smile, 

I  look  upon  thy  folded  hair; 
Ah  !  while  we  dream  not  they  beguile, 

Our  hearts  are  in  the  snare ; 
And  she  who  chains  a  wild  bird's  wing 
Must  start  not  if  her  captive  sing. 

So,  lady,  take  the  leaf  that  falls, 
To  all  but  thee  unseen,  unknown: 

When  evening  shades  thy  silent  walls, 
Then  read  it  all  alone; 

In  stillness  read,  in  darkness  seal, 

Forget,  despise,  but  not  reveal ! 

1831. 


MY    AUNT 

MY  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt ! 

Long  years  have-  o'er  her  flown  ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone; 
I  know  it  hurts  her,  —  though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray;  ia 

Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When  through  a  double  convex  lens 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 

Her  father  —  grandpapa  !  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles  — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles;  2 

He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school; 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required,  • 

'  Two  towels  and  a  spoon.' 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall  ; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small; 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins; —        30 
Oh,  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track);' 
'  Ah  ! '  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
'  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man  ! '  4<j 

Alas  !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been  ! 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 

1831. 


353 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


THE    LAST    LEAFi 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knif  e  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 

Not  a  better  man  was  found  10 

By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 
Sad  and  wan, 

1  The  poem  was  suggested  by  the  sight  of  a  figure 
well  known  to  Bostonians  [iu  1831  or  183'2],  that  of  Ma- 
jor Thomas  Melville,  '  the  last  of  the  cocked  hats,'  as 
be  was  sometimes  called.  The  Major  had  been  a  per- 
sonable young  man,  very  evidently,  and  retained  evi- 
dence of  it  in 


The  mon 


ital  pomp  of  age  — 


which  had  something  imposing  and  something  odd 
about  it  for  youthful  eyes  like  mine.  He  was  often 
pointed  at  as  one  of  the  '  Indians  '  of  the  famous  '  Bos- 
ton Tea-Party  '  of  1774.  His  aspect  among  the  crowds 
of  a  later  generation  reminded  me  of  a  withered  leaf 
which  has  held  to  its  stem  through  the  storms  of  au- 
tumn and  winter,  and  finds  itself  still  clinging  to  its 
bough  while  the  new  growths  of  spring  are  bursting 
their  buds  and  spreading  their  foliage  all  around  it.  I 
make  this  explanation  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  have 
been  puzzled  by  the  lines, 


The  way  in  which  it  came  to  be  written  in  a  some- 
what singular  measure  was  this.  I  had  become  a  little 
known  as  a  versifier,  and  I  thought  that  one  or  two  other 
young  writers  were  following  my  efforts  with  imita- 
tions, not  meant  as  parodies  and  hardly  to  be  consid- 
ered improvements  on  their  models.  I  determined  to 
write  in  a  measure  which  would  at  once  betray  any 
copyist.  So  far  as  it  was  suggested  by  any  previous 
poem,  the  echo  must  have  come  from  Campbell's  '  Bat- 
tle of  the  Baltic,'  with  its  short  terminal  lines,  such  as 
the  last  of  these  two, 


But  I  do  not  remember  any  poem  in  the  same  measure, 
except  such  as  have  been  written  since  its  publication. 
(HOLMES.) 

Holmes  wrote  to  his  publishers  in  1894:  'I  have 
lasted  long  enough  to  serve  as  an  illustration  of  my 
own  poem.  ...  It  was  with  a  smile  on  my  lips  that 
I  wrote  it ;  I  cannot  read  it  without  a  sigh  of  tender 
remembrance.  I  hope  it  will  not  sadden  my  older  read- 
ers, while  it  may  amuse  some  of  the  younger  ones  to 
whom  its  experiences  are  as  yet  only  floating  fancies.' 

Lincoln  called  the  poem  '  inexpressibly  touching,' 
and  knew  it  by  heart.  Holmes  possessed  a  copy  of  it 
written  out  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  Whittier  (Prose 
Works,  vol.  iii,  p.  381)  called  it  a  '  unique  compound  of 
humor  and  pathos.' 


And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 
They  are  gone.' 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow; 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here  ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer  ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  ding. 


1831  or  1832. 


1833.2 


LA   GRISETTE 

AH,  Clemence  !  when  I  saw  thee  last 
Trip  down  the  Rue  de  Seine, 

And  turning,  when  thy  form  had  past, 
I  said,  '  We  meet  again,'  — 

I  dreamed  not  in  that  idle  glance 
Thy  latest  image  came, 

3  Just  when  it  was  written  I  cannot  exactly  say,  noi 
in  what  paper  or  periodical  it  was  first  published.  It 
must  have  been  written  before  April,  1833;  probably 
in  1831  or  1832.  It  was  republished  in  the  first  edition 
of  my  poems  in  1836.  (HOLMES.)  It  was  in  fact  pub- 
lished in  The  Harbinger,  Boston,  1S33. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


359 


And  only  left  to  memory's  trance 
A  shadow  and  a  name. 

The  few  strange  words  my  lips  had  taught 

Thy  timid  voice  to  speak,  10 

Their  gentler  signs,  which  often  brought 

Fresh  roses  to  thy  cheek, 
The  trailing  of  thy  long  loose  hair 

Bent  o'er  my  couch  of  pain, 
All,  all  returned,  more  sweet,  more  fair; 

Oh,  had  we  met  again  ! 

I  walked  where  saint  and  virgin  keep 

The  vigil  lights  of  Heaven, 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  woes  to  weep, 

And  sins  to  be  forgiven;  20 

I  watched  where  Genevieve  was  laid, 

I  knelt  by  Mary's  shrine, 
Beside  me  low,  soft  voices  prayed; 

Alas  !  but  where  was  thine  ? 

And  when  the  morning  sun  was  bright, 

When  wind  and  wave  were  calm, 
And  flamed,  in  thousand-tinted  light, 

The  rose  of  Xotre  Dame, 
I  wandered  through  the  haunts  of  men, 

From  Boulevard  to  Quai,  30 

Till,  frowning  o'er  Saint  Etienne, 

The  Pantheon's  shadow  lay. 

In  vain,  in  vain;  we  meet  no  more, 

Nor  dream  what  fates  befall; 
And  long  upon  the  stranger's  shore 

My  voice  on  thee  may  call, 
When    years    have    clothed    the    line    in 
moss 

That  tells  thy  name  and  days, 
And  withered,  on  thy  simple  cross, 

The  wreaths  of  Pere-la-Chaise  !  4o 

1836. 


OUR  YANKEE   GIRLS 

LET  greener  lands  and  bluer  skies, 

If  such  the  wide  earth  shows, 
With  fairer  cheeks  and  brighter  eyes, 

Match  us  the  star  and  rose; 
The  winds  that  lift  the  Georgian's  veil, 

Or  wave  Circassia's  curls, 
Waft  to  their  shores  the  sultan's  sail,  -  • 

Who  buys  our  Yankee  girls  ? 

The  gay  grisette,  whose  fingers  touch 
Love's  thousand  chords  so  well; 


The  dark  Italian,  loving  much, 

But  more  than  one  can  tell; 
And  England's  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  dame, 

Who  binds  her  brow  with  pearls ;  — 
Ye  who  have  seen  them,  can  they  shame 

Our  own  sweet  Yankee  girls  ? 

And  what  if  court  or  castle  vaunt 

Its  children  loftier  born  ? 
Who  heeds  the  silken  tassel's  flaunt 

Beside  the  golden  corn  ?  x 

They  ask  not  for  the  dainty  toil 

Of  ribboned  knights  and  earls, 
The  daughters  of  the  virgin  soil, 

Our  free  born  Yankee  girls  ! 

By  every  hill  whose  stately  pines 

Wave  their  dark  arms  above 
The  home  where  some  fair  being  shines, 

To  warm  the  wilds  with  love, 
From  barest  rock  to  bleakest  shore 

Where  farthest  sail  unfurls,  & 

That  stars  and  stripes  are  streaming  o'er,  — 

God  bless  our  Yankee  girls  ! 

1836. 


ON    LENDING   A    PUNCH-BOWL' 

THIS  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells  of 

good  old  times, 
Of  joyous  days  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry 

Christmas  chimes; 
They   were   a   free   and   jovial   race,   but 

honest,  brave,  and  true, 
Who  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when 

this  old  bowl  was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  jbar, —  so 

runs  the  ancient  tale; 
'T  was  hammered  by  an  Antwerp   smith, 

whose  arm  was  like  a  flail; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for 

fear  his  strength  should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow  and  quaffed  a  cup  of 

good  old  Flemish  ale. 

T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to 
please  his  loving  dame, 

1  This  '  punch-bowl '  was,  according  to  old  family 
tradition,  a  caud/e-nip.  It  is  a  massive  piece  of  silver, 
its  cherubs  and  other  ornaments  of  coarse  repoussg 
work,  and  has  two  handles  like  a  loving-cup,  by  which 
it  was  held,  or  passed  from  guest  to  guest.  (HOLMBS.) 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a 
longing  for  the  same;  10 

And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another 
twig  was  found, 

Twas  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot, 
and  handed  smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a 
Puritan  divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a 
little  wine, 

But  hated  punch  and  prelacy;  and  so  it 
was,  perhaps, 

He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  con- 
venticles and  schnapps. 

And    then,  of   course,  you    know  what 's 

next:  it  left  the  Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came,  — 

a  hundred  souls  and  more,  — 
Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their 

new  abodes,  — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least 

a  hundred  loads.  20 

'T  was  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night 

,  was  closing  dim, 
When  brave  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl, 

and  filled  it  to  the  brim  ; 
The  little  Captain  stood  and   stirred   the 

posset  with  his  sword, 
And    all    his    sturdy    men-at-arms    were 

ranged  about  the  board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands   in,  —  the 

man  that  never  feared,  — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and 

wiped  his  yellow  beard; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers  —  the  men 

that  fought  and  prayed  — 
All  drank  as  'twere  their  mother's  milk, 

and  not  a  man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the 

screaming  eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the 

soldier's  wild  halloo;  30 

And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he 

taught  to  kith  and  kin: 
*Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find 

he  smells  of  Holland's  gin  ! ' 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had 
spread  their  leaves  and  snows, 


A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each 

little  cherub's  nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but 

not  in  mirth  or  joy,  — 
T  was    mingled    by   a  mother's   hand   to 

cheer  her  parting  boy. 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  'twill  do  you  good, 

—  poor  child,  you  '11  never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in 

the  midnight  air; 
And  if  —  God  bless  me  !  —  you  were  hurt, 

't  would  keep  away  the  chill. 
So  John  did  drink,  —  and  well  he  wrought 

that  night  at  Bunker's  Hill  !  40 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in 

good  old  English  cheer; 
I  tell   you,  't  was  a  pleasant  thought  to 

bring  its  symbol  here. 
'Tis  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess;  hast 

thou  a  drunken  soul  ? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my 

silver  bowl ! 

I    love    the   memory    of    the    past,  —  its 

pressed  yet  fragrant  flowers,  — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,  the 

ivy  on  its  towers; 
Nay,   this   poor    bauble  it  bequeathed, — 

my  eyes  grow  moist  and  dim, 
To    think    of   all   the  vanished   joys  that 

danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it 

straight  to  me; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er 

the  liquid  be;  50 

And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect 

me  from  the  sin 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words, 

—  'My     dear,     where     have     you 

been?' 

(1848J 


THE   STETHOSCOPE   SONG 

A   PROFESSIONAL   BALLAD 

THERE  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town, 
He  bought  him  a  stethoscope  nice  and 

new, 
All    mounted   and    finished   and   polished 

down, 
With  an  ivory  cap  and  a  stopper  too. 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


361 


It  happened  a  spider  within  did  crawl, 
And  spun  him  a  web  of  ample  size, 

\V  herein  there  chanced  one  day  to  fall 
A  couple  of  very  imprudent  flies. 

The  first  was  a  bottle-fly,  big  and  blue, 
The  second  was  smaller,  and  thin  and 
long;  ,o 

So  there  was  a  concert  between  the  two, 
Like  an  octave  flute  and  a  tavern  gong. 

Now  being  from  Paris  but  recently, 

This    fine  young    man  would    show  his 
skill; 

And  so  they  gave  him,  his  hand  to  try, 
A  hospital  patient  extremely  ill. 

Some  said  that  his  liver  was  short  of  bile, 
And  some  that  his  heart  was  over  size, 

While  some  kept  arguing,  all  the  while, 
He  was  crammed  with  tubercles  up  to  his 
eyes.  20 

This  fine  young  man  then  up  stepped  he, 
And  all  the  doctors  made  a  pause; 

Said  he,  The  man  must  die,  you  see, 
By  the  fifty-seventh  of  Louis's  laws. 

But  since  the  case  is  a  desperate  one, 
To  explore  his  chest  it  may  be  well; 

For  if  he  should  die  and  it  were  not  done, 
You  know  the  autopsy  would  not  tell. 

Then  out  his  stethoscope  he  took, 

And  on  it  placed  his  curious  ear;  3o 

Mon  Dieu  !  said  he,  with  a  knowing  look, 
Why,    here    is   a   sound   that 's   mighty 
queer  ! 

The  bourdonnement  is  very  clear,  — 
A  mphoric  buzzing,  as  I  'm  alive  ! 

Five  doctors  took  their  turn  to  hear; 
Amphoric  buzzing,  said  all  the  five. 

There  's  empyema  beyond  a  doubt; 

We  '11  plunge  a  trocar  in  his  side. 
The  diagnosis  was  made  out,  — 

They  tapped  the  patient;  so  he  died.     4o 

Now  such  as  hate  new-fashioned  toys 

Began  to  look  extremely  glum ; 
They   said    that    rattles    were    made    for 

boys, 

And  vowed  that  his   buzzing  was   all  a 
hum. 


There  was  an  old  lady  had  long  been  sick, 
And    what   was    the   matter   none   did 

know: 
Her  pulse  was  slow,  though  her  tongue  was 

quick; 
To  her  this  knowing  youth  must  go. 

So  there  the  nice  old  lady  sat, 

With  phials  and  boxes  all  in  a  row;        50 

She  asked  the  young  doctor  what  he  was 

at, 

To   thump   her   and   tumble  her 


Now,  when  the  stethoscope  came  out, 
The  flies  began  to  buzz  and  whiz: 

Oh,  ho  !  the  matter  is  clear,  no  doubt; 
An  aneurism  there  plainly  is. 

The  bruit  de  rape  and  the  bruit  de  scie 
And  the  bruit  de  diable  are  all  combined; 

How  happy  Bouillaud  would  be, 

If  he  a  case  like  this  could  find  !  60 

Now,  when  the  neighboring  doctors  found 
A  case  so  rare  had  been  descried, 

They  every  day  her  ribs  did  pound 
In  squads  of  twenty;  so  she  died. 

Then  six  young  damsels,  slight  and  frail, 
Received  this  kind  young  doctor's  cares; 

They  all  were  getting  slim  and  pale, 
And  short  of  breath  on  mounting  stairs. 

They  all  made  rhymes   with   '  sighs '  and 

'  skies,' 

And  loathed  their  puddings  and  buttered 

rolls,  7o 

And  dieted,  much  to  their  friends'  surprise, 

On  pickles  and  pencils  and   chalk   and 


So  fast  their  little  hearts  did  bound, 

The  frightened  insects  buzzed  the  more; 

So  over  all  their  chests  he  found 
The  rale  sifflant  and  the  rale  sonare. 

He   shook   his   head.    There 's   grave   dis- 
ease, — 

I  greatly  fear  you  all  must  die; 
A  slight  post-mortem,  if  you  please, 

Surviving  friends  would  gratify.  Sa 

The  six  young  damsels  wept  aloud, 
Which  so  prevailed  on  six  young  men 


362 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


That  each  his  honest  love  avowed, 
Whereat  they  all  got  well  again. 

This  poor  young  man  was  all  aghast; 

The  price  of  stethoscopes  came  down; 
And  so  he  was  reduced  at  last 

To  practise  in  a  country  town. 

The  doctors  being  very  sore, 

A  stethoscope  they  did  devise  90 

That  had  a  rammer  to  clear  the  bore, 

With  a  knob  at  the  end  to  kill  the  flies. 

Now  use  your  ears,  all  you  that  can, 

But  don't  forget  to  mind  your  eyes, 
Or  you  may  be  cheated,   like  this  young 


By  a  couple  of  silly,  abnormal  flies. 


(1848.) 


THE   STATESMAN'S    SECRET1 

WHO  of  all  statesmen  is  his  country's 

pride, 
Her  councils'   prompter   and  her  leaders' 

guide  ? 
He  speaks;  the  nation  holds  its  breath  to 

hear; 

He  nods,  and  shakes  the  sunset  hemisphere. 
Born  where  the   primal   fount  of   Nature 

springs 
By   the   rude    cradles   of    her   throneless 

kings, 

In  his  proud  eye  her  royal  signet  flames, 
By  his   own   lips  her  Monarch    she   pro- 
claims. 
Why  name  his  countless  triumphs,  whom 

to  meet 

[s  to  be  famous,  envied  in  defeat  ?  10 

The  keen  debaters,  trained  to  brawls  and 

strife, 
Who   fire   one   shot,   and   finish  with   the 

knife, 
Tried  him  but  once,  and,  cowering  in  their 

shame, 
Ground  their  hacked   blades   to   strike  at 

meaner  game. 

The  lordly  chief,  his  party's  central  stay, 
Whose  lightest  word  a  hundred  votes  obey, 
Found  a  new  listener  seated  at  his  side, 
Looked  in  his  eye,  and  felt  himself  defied, 

1  Originally  called  '  The  Disappointed  Statesman.' 
See  the  notes  on  Emerson's '  Webster,'  p.  61,  and  Whit- 
tier^  '  Ichabod,'  p.  282. 


Flung  his   rash   gauntlet  on  the   startled 

floor, 
Met    the    all  -  conquering,    fought,  —  and 

ruled  no  more.  2o 

See  where  he  moves,  what  eager  crowds 

attend  ! 
What  shouts  of   thronging  multitudes  as- 

cend ! 

If  this  is  life,  —  to  mark  with  every  hour 
The    purple    deepening    in   his   robes    of 

power, 

To  see  the  painted  fruits  of  honor  fall 
Thick  at  his  feet,  and  choose  among  them 

all, 
To  hear  the  sounds  that  shape  his  spread- 

ing name 
Peal  through   the   myriad   organ-stops   o^ 

fame, 
Stamp  the  lone  isle  that  spots  the  seaman's 

chart, 

And  crown  the  pillared  glory  of  the  mart,  30 
To    count    as   peers    the    few   supremely 

wise 
Who   mark   their   planet    in   the    angels' 

eyes,  — 
If  this  is  life  — 

What  savage  man  is  he 
Who    strides    alone    beside   the   sounding 

sea? 

Alone  he  wanders  by  the  murmuring  shore, 
His  thoughts  as  restless  as  the  waves  that 

roar; 

Looks  on  the  sullen  sky  as  stormy-browed 
As   on   the    waves    yon   tempest-brooding 

cloud, 
Heaves  from  his  aching  breast  a  wailing 

sigh, 
Sad  as  the  gust  that  sweeps  the  clouded 

sky.  4o 

Ask  him  his  griefs;  what  midnight  demons 


plough 
lines  of 


The  lines  of  torture  on  his  lofty  brow; 
Unlock  those   marble  lips,  and   bid  them 

speak 
The    mystery   freezing    in    his    bloodless 

cheek. 

His  secret  ?   Hid  beneath  a  flimsy  word  ; 
One  foolish  whisper  that  ambition  heard  ; 
And  thus  it  spake  :    '  Behold   yon   gilded 

chair, 
The  world's  one  vacant  throne,  —  thy  place 

is  there  !  ' 
Ah,  fatal  dream  !     What  warning  spec- 

tres meet 
In  ghastly  circle  round  its  shadowy  seat  !  50 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


363 


Yet   still   the    Tempter   murmurs    in   his 
ear 

The  maddening  taunt  he  cannot  choose  but 
hear: 

'  Meanest  of  slaves,  by  gods  and  men  ac- 
curst, 

He  who  is  second  when  he  might  be  first  ! 

Climb  with  bold  front  the  ladder's  topmost 
round, 

Or   chain   thy   creeping   footsteps   to   the 

ground  !  ' 

Illustrious  Dupe  !     Have  those  majestic 
eyes 

Lost  their   proud   fire    for   such  a  vulgar 
prize? 

Art  thou  the  last  of  all  mankind  to  know 

That  party-fights  are  won  by  aiming  low? 

Thou,  stamped  by  Nature  with  her  royal 
sign,  61 

That  party-hirelings  hate  a  look  like  thine? 

Shake  from   thy  sense   the  wild   delusive 
dream  ! 

Without    the    purple,    art   thou    not    su- 
preme ? 

And  soothed  by  love  unbought,  thy  heart 
shall  own 

A  nation's  homage  nobler  than  its  throne  ! 

18501  (1861.) 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  WORDS- 
WORTH * 

COME,  spread  your  wings,  as  I  spread  mine, 

And  leave  the  crowded  hall 
For  where  the  eyes  of  twilight  shine 

O'er  evening's  western  wall. 

These  are  the  pleasant  Berkshire  hills, 

Each  with  its  leafy  crown; 
Hark  !  from  their  sides  a  thousand  rills 

Come  singing  sweetly  down. 

A  thousand  rills;  they  leap  and  shine, 
Strained  through  the  shadowy  nooks,    10 

Till,  clasped  in  many  a  gathering  twine, 
They  swell  a  hundred  brooks. 

A  hundred  brooks,  and  still  they  run 
With  ripple,  shade,  and  gleam, 

1  This  and  the  following  poem  were  read  by  Holmes 
as  postludes  to  lectures  given  by  him  at  the  Lowell 
Institute  in  Boston,  in  1853,  on  English  Poetry  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century.  Two  years  later  Lowell  lectured 
at  the  same  Institute  on  English  Poetry  from  its  Origins 
to  Wordsworth. 


Till,  clustering  all  their  braids  in  one, 
They  flow  a  single  stream. 

A  bracelet  spun  from  mountain  mist, 

A  silvery  sash  unwound, 
With  ox-bow  curve  and  sinuous  twist 

It  writhes  to  reach  the  Sound. 

This  is  my  bark,  —  a  PJ  „ 

Beneath  a  child  it  rolls; 
Fear  not,  —  one  body  makes  it  dip, 

But  not  a  thousand  souls. 

Float  we  the  grassy  banks  between; 

Without  an  oar  we  glide; 
The  meadows,  drest  in  living  green, 

Unroll  on  either  side. 

Come,  take  the  book  we  love  so  well, 

And  let  us  read  and  dream 
We  see  whate'er  its  pages  tell, 

And  sail  an  English  stream. 

Up  to  the  clouds  the  lark  has  sprung, 

Still  trilling  as  he  flies; 
The  linnet  sings  as  there  he  sung; 

The  unseen  cuckoo  cries, 

And  daisies  strew  the  banks  along, 

And  yellow  kingcups  shine, 
With  cowslips,  and  a  primrose  throng, 

And  humble  celandine. 

Ah  foolish  dream  !  when  Nature  nursed 

Her  daughter  in  the  West, 
The  fount  was  drained  that  opened  first; 

She  bared  her  other  breast. 

On  the  young  planet's  orient  shore 

Her  morning  hand  she  tried ; 
Then  turned  the  broad  medallion  b'er 

And  stamped  the  sunset  side. 

Take  what  she  gives,  her  pine's  tall  stem, 
Her  elm  with  hanging  spray; 

She  wears  her  mountain  diadem 
Still  in  her  own  proud  way. 

Look  on  the  forests'  ancient  kings, 
The  hemlock's  towering  pride: 

Yon  trunk  had  thrice  a  hundred  rings, 
And  fell  before  it  died. 

Nor  think  that  Nature  saves  her  bloom 
And  slights  our  grassy  plain; 


364 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


For  us  she  wears  her  court  costume,  — 
Look  011  its  broidered  train;  60 

The  lily  with  the  sprinkled  dots, 

Brands  of  the  noontide  beam; 
The  cardinal,  and  the  blood-red  spots, 

Its  double  in  the  stream, 

As  if  some  wounded  eagle's  breast, 

Slow  throbbing  o'er  the  plain, 
Had  left  its  airy  path  impressed 

In  drops  of  scarlet  rain. 

And  hark  !  and  hark  !  the  woodland  rings; 

There  thrilled  the  thrush's  soul;  70 

And  look  !  that  flash  of  flamy  wings,  — 

The  fire-plumed  oriole  ! 

Above,  the  hen-hawk  swims  and  swoops, 
Flung  from  the  bright,  blue  sky; 

Below,  the  robin  hops,  and  whoops 
His  piercing  Indian  cry. 

Beauty  runs  virgin  in  the  woods 

Robed  in  her  rustic  green, 
And  oft  a  longing  thought  intrudes, 

As  if  we  might  have  seen  80 

Her  every  finger's  every  joint 
Ringed  with  some  golden  line, 

Poet  whom  Nature  did  anoint  ! 
Had  our  wild  home  been  thine. 

Yet  think  not  so;  Old  England's  blood 

Runs  warm  in  English  veins; 
But  wafted  o'er  the  icy  flood 

Its  better  life  remains: 

Our  children  know  each  wildwood  smell, 
The  bayberry  and  the  fern,  90 

The  man  who  does  not  know  them  well 
Is  all  too  old  to  learn. 

Be  patient !  On  the  breathing  page 

Still  pants  our  hurried  past; 
Pilgrim  and  soldier,  saint  and  sage,  — 

The  poet  comes  the  last ! 

Though  still  the  lark-voiced  matins  ring 
The  world  has  known  so  long; 

The  wood-thrush  of  the  West  shall  sing 
Earth's  last  sweet  even-song  !  100 

1863.  (1861.) 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY 

ONE  broad,  white  sail  in  Spezzia's  treacher- 
ous bay; 

On  comes  the  blast;  too  daring  bark,  be- 
ware ! 
The  cloud  has  clasped  her;   lo  !  it   melts 

away; 

The  wide,  waste  waters,  but  no  sail  is 
there. 

Morning:  a  woman  looking  on  the  sea; 
Midnight:  with  lamps  the  long  veranda 

burns; 
Come,    wandering    sail,  they    watch,  they 

burn  for  thee  ! 
Suns  come  and  go,  alas!  no  bark  returns. 

And     feet   are    thronging   on   the    pebbly 

sands, 

And  torches  flaring  in  the  weedy  caves,  10 
Where'er  the  waters  lay  with  icy  hands 
The    shapes   uplifted    from    their   coral 
graves. 

Vainly  they  seek ;  the  idle  quest  is  o'er ; 
The  coarse,  dark  women,  with  their  hang- 
ing locks, 
And  lean,  wild  children  gather    from  the 

shore 
To  the  black  hovels  bedded  in  the  rocks. 

But  Love  still  prayed,- with  agonizing  wail, 
'  One,  one  last  look,  ye  heaving  waters, 

yield  !  ' 

Till  Ocean,  clashing  in  his  jointed  mail, 
Raised    the    pale    burden    on  his    level 
shield.  20 

Slow  from  the  shore  the  sullen  waves  re- 
tire; 

His  form  a  nobler  element  shall  claim; 
Nature  baptized  him  in  ethereal  fire, 

And  Death  shall  crown  him  with  a  wreath 
of  flame. 

Fade,  mortal  semblance,  never  to  return; 

Swift  is  the  change  within  thy  crimson 

shroud ; 
Seal  the  white  ashes  in  the  peaceful  urn; 

All  else  has  risen  in  yon  silvery  cloud. 

Sleep  where  thy  gentle  Adonais  lies, 

Whose   open    page     lay   on    thy   dying 
heart,  3° 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


365 


Both  in  the  smile  of  those  blue- vaulted  skies, 
Earth's  fairest  dome  of  all  divinest  art. 

Breathe  for  his  wandering  soul  one  passing 

sigh, 
O    happier   Christian,    while   thine    eye 

grows  dim,  — 

In  all  the  mansions  of  the  house  on  high, 

Say  not  that  Mercy  has  not  one  for  him  ! 

1853.  (1861.) 


THE    HUDSON 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  AT  ALBANY 

'TWAS  a  vision   of   childhood  that  came 

with  its  dawn, 
Ere  the  curtain  that  covered  life's  day-star 

was  drawn; 
The  nurse  told  the  tale  when  the  shadows 

grew  long, 
And  the  mother's  soft  lullaby  breathed  it  in 

song. 

*  There  flows  a  fair  stream  by  the  hills  of 

the  West,'  — 

She  sang  to  her  boy  as  he  lay  on  her  breast ; 
'Along  its  smooth  margin  thy  fathers 

have  played; 
Beside  its  deep  waters  their  ashes  are  laid.' 

I  wandered  afar  from  the  land  of  my  birth, 
1  saw  the  old  rivers,  renowned  upon  earth, 
But  fancy  still  painted  that  wide-flowing 

stream 
With   the    many-hued   pencil  of  infancy's 

dream. 

I  saw  the  green  banks  of  the  castle-crowned 

Rhine, 
Where  the  grapes  drink  the  moonlight  and 

change  it  to  wine; 

1  See  the  notes  on  Whittier's  '  The  Last  Walk  in  Au- 
tumn,' p.  292,  and  on  Emerson's  '  Written  in  Naples,' 
p.  60,  and  compare  a  recent  sonnet  on  the  Hudson  by 
Mr.  George  S.  Hellman  :  — 

Where  in  its  old  historic  splendor  stands 
The  home  of  England's  far-famed  Parliament, 
And  waters  of  the  Thames  in  calm  content 
At  England's  fame  flow  slowly  o'er  their  sands  ; 
And  where  the  Rhine  past  vine-entwined  lands 
Courses  in  castled  beauty,  there  I  went ; 
And  far  to  Southern  rivers,  flower-besprent ; 
And  to  the  icy  streams  of  Northern  strands. 
Then  mine  own  native  shores  I  trod  once  more, 
And,  gazing  on  thy  waters'  majesty, 
The  memory,  O  Hudson,  came'to  me 

For  Love,  but  found  it  nnt.    Then  home  turned  he 
And  taw  his  mother  waiting  at  the  door. 


I  stood  by  the  Avon,  whose  waves  as  they 

glide 
Still  whisper  his  glory  who  sleeps  at  their 

side. 

But  my  heart  would   still  yearn  for  the 

sound  of  the  waves 
That  sing  as  they  flow  by  my  forefathers' 


If  manhood  yet  honors  my  cheek  with  a  tear, 
I  care  not  who  sees  it,  —  nor  blush  for  it 
here! 

Farewell  to  the  deep-bosomed  stream  of 

the  West  ! 
I  fling  this    loose   blossom  to  float  on  its 

breast; 
Nor  let  the  dear  love  of  its  children  grow 

cold, 
Till  the  channel  is  dry  where  its  waters 

have  rolled ! 
1854.  (1861.) 


TO   AN    ENGLISH    FRIEND 


THE  seed  that  wasteful  autumn  cast 
To  waver  on  its  stormy  blast, 
Long  o'er  the  wintry  desert  tost, 
germ  has  never  lost. 


Itsl 


Its  living  germ  nas  never  lost. 
Dropped  by  the  weary  tempest's  wing, 
It  feels  the  kindling  ray  of  spring, 
And,  starting  from  its  dream  of  death, 
Pours  on  the  air  its  perfumed  breath. 

So,  parted  by  the  rolling  flood, 

The  love  that  springs  from  common  blood 

Needs  but  a  single  sunlit  hour 

Of  mingling  smiles  to  bud  and  flower; 

Unharmed  its  slumbering  life  lias  flown, 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  zone  to'  zone, 

Where  summer's  falling  roses  stain 

The  tepid  waves  of  Poutchartrain, 

Or  where  the  lichen  creeps  below 

Katahdin's  wreaths  of  whirling  snow. 

Though  fiery  sun  and  stiffening  cold 
May  change  the  fair  ancestral  mould, 
No  winter  chills,  no  summer  drains 
The  life-blood  drawn  from  English  veins, 
Still  bearing  wheresoe'er  it  flows 
The  love  that  with  its  fountain  rose, 
Unchanged  by  space,  unwrouged  by  time, 
From  age  to  age,  from  clime  to  clime  ! 

(1861.) 


366 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


THE  OLD  MAN   DREAMS1 

OH  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 
I  'd  rather  laugh,  a  bright-haired  boy, 

Than  reign,  a  gray-beard  king. 

Off  with  the  spoils  of  wrinkled  age  ! 

Away  with  Learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  Wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame  ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame  ! 


My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 

And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 
'  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

'  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 

To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  '  20 

'  Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 

Without  thee  what  were  life  ? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind: 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife  ! ' 

The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband  too! 

'  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid, 

Before  the  change  appears  ?  30 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years.' 

'  Why,  yes ; '  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys; 
'  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all  — 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys.' 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

'  Why,  this  will  never  do ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too  ! '  40 


1  Written  for  a  reunion  of  Holmes's  college  class. 
See  the  note  on  '  The  Boys,'   p.  374. 


And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise,  — • 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 

1854.  (18G1.) 


BIRTHDAY     OF     DANIEL     WEB- 
STER 

JANUARY    18,    1856 

WHEN  life  hath  run  its  largest  round 
Of  toil  and  triumph,  joy  and  woe, 

How  brief  a  storied  page  is  found 
To  compass  all  its  outward  show  ! 

The  world-tried  sailor  tires  and  droops; 

His  flag  is  rent,  his  keel  forgot; 
His  farthest  voyages  seem  but  loops 

That  float  from  life's  entangled  knot. 

But  when  within  the  narrow  space 

Some     larger      soul     hath    lived     and 
wrought,  10 

Whose  sight  was  open  to  embrace 

The     boundless     realms    of    deed    and 
thought,  — 

When,  stricken  by  the  freezing  blast, 

A  nation's  living  pillars  fall, 
How  rich  the  storied  page,  how  vast, 

A  word,  a  whisper,  can  recall ! 

No  medal  lifts  its  fretted  face, 

Nor  speaking  marble  cheats  your  eye, 

Yet,  while  these  pictured  lines  I  trace, 
A  living  image  passes  by:  20 

A  roof  beneath  the  mountain  pines; 

The  cloisters  of  a  hill-girt  plain; 
The  front  of  life's  embattled  lines; 

A  mound  beside  the  heaving  mam. 

These  are  the  scenes:  a  boy  appears; 

Set  life's  round  dial  in  the  sun, 
Count  the  swift  arc  of  seventy  years, 

His  frame  is  dust;  his  task  is  done. 

Yet  pause  upon  the  noontide  hour, 

Ere  the  declining  sun  has  laid  3o 

His  bleaching  rays  on  manhood's  power, 
And  look  upon  the  mighty  shade. 

No  gloom  that  stately  shape  can  hide, 
No  change  uncrown  its  brow;  behold  ! 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


367 


Dark,  calm,  large-fronted,  lightning-eyed, 
Earth  has  no  double  from  its  mould  ! 

Ere  from  the  fields  by  valor  won 
The  battle-smoke  had  rolled  away, 

And  bared  the  blood-red  setting  sun, 

His  eyes  were  opened  on  the  day.          40 

His  land  was  but  a  shelving  strip 

Black  with  the  strife  that  made  it  free; 

He  lived  to  see  its  banners  dip 
Their  fringes  in  the  Western  sea. 

The  boundless  prairies  learned  his  name, 
His  words  the  mountain  echoes  knew. 

The  Northern  breezes  swept  his  fame 
From  icy  lake  to  warm  bayou. 

In  toil  he  lived;  in  peace  he  died; 

When  life's  full  cycle  was  complete       50 
Put  off  his  robes  of  power  and  pride, 

And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  feet. 

His  rest  is  by  the  storm-swept  waves 

Whom  life's  wild  tempests  roughly  tried, 

Whose  heart  was  like  the  streaming  caves 
Of  ocean,  throbbing  at  his  side. 

Death's  cold  white  hand  is  like  the  snow 
Laid  softly  on  the  furrowed  hill, 

It  hides  the  broken  seams  below, 

And  leaves  the  summit  brighter  still.    60 

In  vain  the  envious  tongue  upbraids; 

His  name  a  nation's  heart  shall  keep 
Till  morning's  latest  sunlight  fades 

On  the  blue  tablet  of  the  deep  ! 

1S55-56.  (1861.) 


FOR   THE   MEETING   OF   THE 
BURNS    CLUB 

1856 

THE  mountains  glitter  in  the  snow 

A  thousand  leagues  asunder; 
Yet  here,  amid  the  banquet's  glow, 

I  hear  their  voice  of  thunder; 
Each  giant's  ice-bound  goblet  clinks; 

A  flowing  stream  is  summoned ; 
Wachusett  to  Ben  Nevis  drinks; 

Monadnock  to  Ben  Lomond  ! 

Though    years    have    clipped  the  eagle's 
plume 


That  crowned  the  chieftain's  bonnet,     10 
The  sun  still  sees  the  heather  bloom, 

The  silver  mists  lie  on  it; 
With  tartan  kilt  and  philifoeg, 

What  stride  was  ever  bolder 
Than  his  who  showed  the  naked  leg 

Beneath  the  plaided  shoulder  ? 

The  echoes  sleep  on  Cheviot's  hills, 

That  heard  the  bugles  blowing 
When  down  their  sides  the  crimson  rills 

With  mingled  blood  were  flowing;         20 
The     hunts    where    gallant    hearts    were 
game, 

The  slashing  on  the  border, 
The   raid    that   swooped   with   sword  and 
flame, 

Give  place  to  '  law  and  order.' 

Not  while  the  rocking  steeples  reel 

With  midnight  tocsins  ringing, 
Not  while  the  crashing  war-notes  peal, 

God  sets  his  poets  singing; 
The  bird  is  silent  in  the  night, 

Or  shrieks  a  cry  of  warning  30 

While  fluttering  round  the  beacon-light,  — . 

But  hear  him  greet  the  morning  ! 

The  lark  of  Scotia's  morning  sky  ! 

Whose  voice  may  sing  his  praises  ? 
With  Heaven's  own  sunlight  in  his  eye, 

He  walked  among  the  daisies, 
Till  through  the  cloud  of  fortune's  wrong 

He  soared  to  fields  of  glory; 
But  left  his  land  her  sweetest  song 

And  earth  her  saddest  story.  4<\ 

'Tis  not  the  forts  the  builder  piles 

That  chain  the  earth  together ; 
The  wedded  crowns,  the  sister  isl^s, 

Would  laugh  at  such  a  tether; 
The  kindling  thought,  the  throbbing  wordst 

That  set  the  pulses  beating, 
Are  stronger  than  the  myriad  swords 

Of  mighty  armies  meeting. 

Thus  while  within  the  banquet  glows, 

Without,  the  wild  winds  whistle,  5c 

We  drink  a  triple  health,  —  the  Rose, 

The  Shamrock,  and  the  Thistle  ! 
Their  blended  hues  shall  never  fade 

Till  War  has  hushed  his  cannon,  — 
Close-twined  as  ocean-currents  braid 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon  ! 
1856.  (1861.1 


368 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


LATTER-DAY    WARNINGS1 

WHEN  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and  locks, 
When  berries  —  whortle,  rasp,  and  straw  — 

Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the 
box, — 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right, 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 
Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  —  10 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean, — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give, 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take, — 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience' 
sake,— 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 

Without  a  lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  —        20 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 
The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 

And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist,  — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,  —  30 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 

Rolls  through  the  Hoosac  Tunnel's 
bore ; — 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away, 
And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe  ! 

1857. 

1  I  should  have  felt  more  nervous  about  the  late 
comet,  if  I  had  thought  the  world  was  ripe.  But  it  is 
very  green  yet,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  ;  and  besides, 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  coal  to  use  up,  which  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  think  was  made  for  nothing.  .  .  . 
(HOLMES,  introducing  the  poem,  in  the  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table.) 

This  and  the  six  following  poems  first  appeared  in 
the  Autocrat  papers,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 


THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS2 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet   summer   wind   its   purpled 

wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their 
streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 
Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl  ! 
And  every  chambered  cell,  10 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to 

dwell, 
As   the    frail   tenant   shaped   his  growing 

shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  un- 
sealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He   left   the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the 

new, 
Stole   with  soft  step  its  shining  archway 

through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door,  20 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew 
the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought 

by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear 
a  voice  that  sings:  — 

Build   thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my 

soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll  !  30 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past ! 

Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 

1  Suggested  by  looking  at  a  section  of  one  of  those 
chambered  shells  to  which  is  given  the  name  of  Pearly 
Nautilus.  .  .  .  If  you  will  look  into  Rogers  Bridge-water 
Treatise  you  will  find  a  figure  of  one  of  these  shells  and 
a  section  of  it.  The  last  will  show  you  the  series  of  en 
larging  compartments  successively  dwelt  in  by  the  ani- 
mal that  inhabits  the  shell,  which  is  built  in  a  widening 
spiral.  (HOLMES,  in  the  Autocrat.) 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


369 


Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more 

vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  un- 
resting sea  ! 

1858. 


THE    LIVING  TEMPLE1 

NOT  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne, 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 
And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen: 
Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame,  — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows     murmuring     through     its     hidden 
caves,  10 

Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush, 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net  20 

Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides, 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part, 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 

Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 

Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 

With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 

And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 

By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains,        30 

Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 

Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 

1  Having  read  our  company  so  much  of  the  Profes- 
sor's talk  about  age  and  other  subjects  connected 
with  physical  life,  I  took  the  next  Sunday  morning  to 
repeat  to  them  the  following  poem  of  his,  which  I  have 
had  by  me  for  gome  time.  He  calls  it  —  I  suppose  for 
his  professional  friends  —  '  The  Anatomist's  Hymn,' 
but  I  shall  name  it  '  The  Living  Temple.'  (Homw,  in- 
troducing the  poem,  in  the  Autocrat.) 


Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 
Wakes   the   hushed   spirit    through    thine 

ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear.  4o 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds; 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill, 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells  ! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

O  Father  !  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  !        50 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers   over  all, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms  ! 

1858. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE 

OR,   THE  WONDERFUL   «  ONE-HOSS    SHAY  ' 
A   LOGICAL   STORY 

HAVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss 

shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but  stay, 
I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wife,  — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  —          i« 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot,  — 


37° 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill,        20 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In   screw,   bolt,    thoroughbrace,  —  lurking 

still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 
And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
That  a  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear 


But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  deacons  do, 
With  an  '  I  dew  vum,'  or  an  '  I  tell  yeou ') 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'N'  the  keounty  V  all  the  kentry  raoun';  30 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  could  n'  break 

daown: 

'  Fur,'  said  the  Deacon,  '  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thut   the   weakes'   place   mus'    stan'   the 

strain; 
'N'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest.' 

So   the   Deacon   inquired    of    the   village 

folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — 
That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills;    40 
He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straight- 

est  trees, 
The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like 

cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  'Settler's  el- 

lum,'  — 

Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell  'em, 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their 

lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw,  50 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  '  put  her  through.' 
'  There  ! '   said  the   Deacon,  '  naow  she  '11 

dew!' 

Do  !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray,      60 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 


Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were 

they? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED;  — it  came  and  found 
The     Deacon's     masterpiece    strong    and 

sound. 

Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten;  — 
'  Hahnsum  kerridge  '  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ;  — 
Running  as  usual;  much  the  same.  70 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 
Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 
Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 
In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth. 
So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 
(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large; 
Take   it.  —  You're   welcome.  —  No    extra 
charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER,  —  the  earthquake- 
day, —  go 
There  are  traces  of  age   in  the  one-hoss 

shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 
There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  wasn't  a   chance  for  one  to 

start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the 

thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the 

sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the   back  crossbar  as  strong   as   the 
fore,  91 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way  ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
'  Huddup  ! '   said    the   parson.  —  Off   went 

they.  ioo 

The   parson    was    working    his    Sunday's 

text,  — 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


371 


Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet'n'  -house  on  the  hill. 
First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 
At   half   past   nine    by   the   meet'n'-house 

clock,  — 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  !  1 10 
What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground  ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-boss  shay 
Logic  is  logic.   That 's  all  1  say.  120 

1858. 

CONTENTMENT 

'Man  wants  but  little  here  below.' 

LITTLE  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do) 

That  I  may  call  my  own;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten ;  — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.    Amen  !  10 

I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land ;  — 
Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 

Some  good  bank-stock,  some  note  of  hand, 
Or  trifling  railroad  share,  — 

I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 

A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names;  20 

I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 

But  only  near  St.  James; 
I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  baubles;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things;  — 


One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 
Will  do  for  me ;  —  I  laugh  at  show.  30 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire 
(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear) ;  — 

I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 

Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 

Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare ; 

An  easy  gait  —  two  forty-five  — 

Suits  me ;  I  do  not  care ;  —  4c 

Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 

Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four,  — 

I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone, 
One  Turner,  and  no  more 

(A  landscape,  —  foreground  golden  dirt,  — 

The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt). 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 

For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear;        50 

The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor;  — 
Some  little  luxury  there 

Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam 

And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,    cameos,    gems,  —  such    things    as 
these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
7  value  for  their  power  to  please, 

And  selfish  churls  deride;  — 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 
Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess.  60 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learnf 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool :  — 

Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 
But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 

I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 
Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch; 

If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  —  70 

Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 

Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content  ! 

1858. 


372 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY 
OR,  THE  PRESIDENT'S  OLD  ARM-CHAIR 

A    MATHEMATICAL   STORY 

FACTS  respecting  an  old  arm-chair, 

At   Cambridge.     Is   kept  in  the   College 

there. 

Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
That 's  remarkable  when  I  say 
It  was  old  in  President  Holyoke's  day. 
(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 
Died,  at  one  hundred,  years  ago.) 
•  He  took  lodgings  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  '69. 

Know  old  Cambridge?    Hope  you  do.  —  10 
Born  there?    Don't  say  so  !    I  was,  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof,  — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof.  — 
'  Gambrel  ?  —  Gambrel  ?  '  —  Let  me  beg 
You  '11  look  at  a  horse's  hinder  leg,  — 
First  great  angle  above  the  hoof,  — 
That 's    the     gambrel  :     hence     gambrel- 
roof.) 

Nicest  place  that  ever  was  seen, — 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 
Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between.  20 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
When  the  canker-worms  don't  rise,  — 
When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 
In  a  quiet  slumber  lies, 
Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A  kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be, 

Facing  the  flow  of  a  boundless  sea. 

Rows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand  30 

Ranged  like  rocks  above  the  sand; 

Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 

Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen,  — 

One  wave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four,  — 

Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor: 

Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more, 

Wandering  off  from  shore  to  shore 

With  its  freight  of  golden  ore  ! 

Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play ;  — 

Better  keep  your  girls  away ;  40 

Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 

Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 

And  every  classic  beach  is  strown 

With    heart-shaped  pebbles   of   blood-red 


But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there; 

I  'm  talking  about  an  old  arm-cnair. 

You  Ve  heard,  no  doubt,  of  PARSON  Tu- 

RELL? 

Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell; 
Married  one  of  the  Mathers'  folk; 
Got  with  his  wife  a  chair  of  oak,  —  50 

Funny  old  chair  with  seat  like  wedge, 
Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge, — 
One  of  the  oddest  of  human  things, 
Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings,  — 
But    heavy,    and     wide,    and    deep,    and 

grand,— 

Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land,  — 
Chief  Justice  Sewall  a  cause  to  try  in, 
Or    Cotton    Mather    to    sit  — and    lie- 
in. 

Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 
To  a  certain  student,  —  SMITH  by  name ;    60 
These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told: 
'  Saide   Smith  saide    Chaire   to   have   and 

holde; 

When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 
To  y*  oldest  Youth  in  ye  Senior  Classe. 
On  payment  of '  —  (naming  a  certain 

sum)  — 

'  By  him  to  whom  y'  Chaire  shall  come ; 
He  to  y*  oldest  Senior  next, 
And  soe  forever '  (thus  runs  the  text),  — 
'  But    one    Crown   lesse    than  he  gave  to 

claime, 
That  being  his  Debte  for  use  of  same.'     70 

Smith  transferred  it  to  one  of  the  BROWNS, 
And  took  his  money,  —  five  silver  crowns. 
Brown  delivered  it  up  to  MOORE, 
Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 
Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  LEE, 
Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 
Lee  conveyed  it  unto  DREW, 
And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 
Drew  gave  up  the  chair  to  DUNN,  — 
All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one.  80 

Dunn  released  the  chair  to  HALL, 
And  got  by  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 

And  now  it  passed  to  a  second  BROWN, 
Who  took  it  and  likewise  claimed  a  crown. 
When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  WARE, 
Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair, 
He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the  chair; 
And  Ware,  being  honest  (as  all  Wares  be), 
He  paid  one  POTTER,  who  took  it,  three. 
Four  got  ROBINSON;  five  got  Dix;  90 

JOHNSON  primus  demanded  six; 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


373 


And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

When  paper  money  became  so  cheap, 
Folks  would  n't  count  it,  but  said  '  a  heap,' 
A    certain    RICHARDS,  —  the    books    de- 
clare 

(A.  M.  in  '90  ?     I  've  looked  with  care 
Through  the  Triennial,  —  name  not  there), — 
This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Eightscore  pounds,  but  would  have  ten;  100 
Nine,  I  think,  was  the  sum  he  took,  — 
Not  quite  certain,  —  but  see  the  book. 
By  and  by  the  wars  were  still, 
But  nothing  had  altered  the  Parson's  will. 
The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet, 
But  saddled  with  such  a  monstrous  debt ! 
Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear, 
Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the  chair  ! 
But  dead  men's  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 
And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and  white, 
Plain  enough  for  a  child  to  spell.  1 1 1 

What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell, 
For   the  chair    was  a  kind  of    nightmare 

curse, 
And  every  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a  last  resort,  to  clear  the  doubt, 
They  got  old  GOVERNOR  HANCOCK  out. 
The  Governor   came  with   his  Lighthorse 

Troop 

And   his    mounted   truckmen,   all   cock-a- 
hoop; 

Halberds  glittered  and  colors  flew, 
French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets  blew, 
The   yellow   fifes   whistled  between   their 

teeth, 
And   the    bumble-bee  bass-drums  boomed 

beneath; 

So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 
Till  the  President  met  him,  cap  in  hand. 
The    Governor  '  hefted '  the    crowns,   and 

said,— 

'  A  will  is  a  will,  and  the  Parson  's  dead.' 
The   Governor   hefted    the    crowns.     Said 

he,— 

'  There  is  your  p'int.     And  here  's  my  fee. 
These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil,  — 
On  such  conditions  I  BREAK  THE  WILL  ! '  130 
The  Governor  mentioned  what  these  should 

be. 

(Just  wait  a  minute  and  then  you  '11  see.) 
The  President  prayed.     Then  all  was  still, 
And  the  Governor   rose    and   BROKE   THE 

WILL  ! 


'  About  those  conditions  ?  '   Well,  now  you 

go 

And  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  then  you  '11  know. 
Once  a  year,  on  Commencement  day, 
If  you  '11  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 
You  '11  see  the  President  in  the  CHAIR, 
j   Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there.        140 
The  President  rises ;  both  old  and  young 
May  hear  his  speech  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 
Is  this:  Can  I  keep  this  old  arm-chair  ? 
And  then  his  Excellency  bows, 
As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 
The  Vice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name; 
He  bows   like   t'  other,  which  means  the 

same. 

And  all  the  officers  round  'em  bow, 
As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow.  150 

And  a  lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 
Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 
And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 
That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you,  Gentlemen  !     Learn  to  give 

Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 

Don't  be  silly  and  think  you  '11  try 

To  bother  the  colleges,  when  you  die, 

With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that, 

That   Knowledge   may  starve  while   Law 

grows  fat;  160 

For  there  never  was  pitcher  that  would  n't 

spill, 
And  there  's  always  a  flaw  in  a  donkey's 

will! 


THE   VOICELESS 

WE  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slum- 
ber, 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to  num- 
ber ? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them :  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  ! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their   hearts'  sad 
story,  — 

Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 
The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  ! 


374 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 
O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 

But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 
On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  longed-for  wine 

Slow-dropped   from    Misery's    crushing 

presses,  — 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven  ! 

1858. 

FOR   THE   BURNS    CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION 

JANUARY    25,    1859 

His  birthday.  —  Nay,  we  need  not  speak 
The  name  each  heart  is  beating,  — 

Each  glistening  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
In  light  and  flame  repeating  ! 

We  come  in  one  tumultuous  tide,  — 

One  surge  of  wild  emotion,  — 
As  crowding  through  the  Frith  of  Clyde 

Rolls  in  the  Western  Ocean; 

As  when  yon  cloudless,  quartered  moon 
Hangs  o'er  each  storied  river,  10 

The  swelling  breasts  of  Ayr  and  Doon 
With  sea-green  wavelets  quiver. 

The  century  shrivels  like  a  scroll,  — 
The  past  becomes  the  present,  — 

And  face  to  face,  and  soul  to  soul, 
We  greet  the  monarch-peasant. 

While  Shenstone  strained  in  feeble  flights 

With  Corydon  and  Phillis,  — 
While    Wolfe    was    climbing   Abraham's 
heights 

To  snatch  the  Bourbon  lilies,  —  20 

Who  heard  the  wailing  infant's  cry, 
The  babe  beneath  the  sheeling, 

Whose  song  to-night  in  every  sky 
Will  shake  earth's  starry  ceiling,  — 

Whose  passion-breathing  voice  ascends 
And  floats  like  incense  o'er  us, 

Whose  ringing  lay  of  friendship  blends 
With  labor's  anvil  chorus  ? 


We  love  him,  not  for  sweetest  song, 

Though  never  tone  so  tender;  J0 

We  love  him,  even  in  his  wrong,  — 
His  wasteful  self-surrender. 

We  praise  him,  not  for  gifts  divine,  — 
His  Muse  was  born  of  woman,  — 

His  manhood  breathes  in  every  line,  — 
Was  ever  heart  more  human  ? 

We  love  him,  praise  him,  just  for  this: 

In  every  form  and  feature, 
Through  wealth   and    want,   through  woe 
and  bliss, 

He  saw  his  fellow-creature  !  40 

No  soul  could  sink  beneath  his  love,  — 

Not  even  angel  blasted; 
No  mortal  power  could  soar  above 

The  pride  that  all  outlasted  ! 

Ay  !  Heaven  had  set  one  living  man 
Beyond  the  pedant's  tether,  — 

His  virtues,  frailties,  HE  may  scan, 
Who  weighs  them  all  together  ! 

I  fling  my  pebble  on  the  cairn 

Of  him,  though  dead,  undying;  50 

Sweet  Nature's  nursling,  bonniest  bairn 

Beneath  her  daisies  lying. 

The  waning  suns,  the  wasting  globe, 
Shall  spare  the  minstrel's  story,  — 

The  centuries  weave  his  purple  robe, 
The  mountain-mist  of  glory  ! 

1859.  (1861.) 

THE   BOYS1 

HAS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with 

the  boys  ? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making 

a  noise. 


i  For  nearly  forty  years,  from  1851  to  1889,  Holmes 
never  failed  to  bring  a  poem  to  the  annual  reunion  of 
his  college  class.  These  poems,  merely  '  occasional,' 
and  local  as  they  were  in  origin,  form  a  section  in  his 
collected  works  which  is  perhaps  the  most  important, 
and,  except  for  his  best  humorous  narratives  and  his 
two  finest  lyrics,  the  most  likely  to  survive ;  for,  with 
all  Holmes' s  characteristic  wit  and  humor,  they  cele- 
brate feelings  that  are  broadly  and  typically  American 
—  class  loyalty  and  college  loyalty,  and  growing  out  of 
these,  the  loyalty  of  man's  enduring  friendship,  and 
loyalty  to  country. 

The  '  famous  class  of  '29 '  counted  among  its  members 
a  chief-justice  of  Massachusetts,  George  T.  Bigelow 
(the  '  Judge '  of  this  poem) ;  a  justice  of  the  United 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


375 


Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Cata- 
logue's spite  ! 

Old  Time  is  a  liar  !  We  're  twenty  to- 
night ! 

We  're  twenty  !      We  're   twenty  !     Who 

says  we  are  more  ? 
He  'a  tipsy,  —  young   jackanapes  !  —  show 

him  the  door  ! 
'  Gray  temples  at  twenty  ? '  —  Yes !  white 

if  we  please; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there  's 

nothing  can  freeze  ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?     Excuse  the 

mistake  ! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a 

flake  !  10 

We  want  some  new  garlands  for  -those  we 

have  shed,  — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the 

red. 

We  Ve  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may 

have  been  told, 

Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old:  — 
That  boy  we  call  '  Doctor,'  and  this  we  call 

' Judge ; ' 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it 's  all 

fudge. 

That  fellow 's  the  «  Speaker,'  l  —  the  one  on 

the  right; 
'  Mr.  Mayor,' 2  my  young  one,  how  are  you 

to-night  ? 
That 's  our  '  Member  of  Congress,'  8  we  say 

when  we  chaff; 
There  's  the  '  Reverend '  What 's  his  name  ? 

—  don't  make  me  laugh.  20 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful 

book, 
And  the  ROYAL  SOCIETY  thought  it  was 

true! 
So  they  chose  him  right  in;  a  good  joke  it 

was,  too  ! 

States  Supreme  Court,  B.  R.  Curtis  (the  '  boy  with  the 
three-decker  brain ');  the  great  preacher,  James  Free- 
man Clarke  ;  Professor  Benjamin  Peirce  ('  that  boy 
with  the  grave  mathematical  look  ') ;  and  the  author 
of  '  America,'  S.  P.  Smith.  For  a  full  list  of  members 
of  the  class,  see  the  Cambridge  Edition  of  Holmes's 
Poetical  Works,  p.  340. 

i  Hon.  Francis   B.  Crowninshield,  Speaker   of   the 
Massachusetts  House  of  Representatives. 

*  G.  W.  Richardson,  of  Worcester,  Massachusetts. 

»  Hon.  George  L.  Davis. 


There  's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three- 
decker  brain, 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical 
chain; 

When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syl- 
labled fire, 

We  called  him  '  The  Justice,'  but  now  he 's 
'  The  Squire.' 

And  there  's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent 

pith,- 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him 

Smith;  3o 

But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and 

the  free,  — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  '  My  country,'  « of 

thee  ! ' 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing  ?  —  You  think 

he 's  all  fun; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he 

has  done; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to 

his  call, 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs 

loudest  of  all ! 

Yes,  we  're   boys,  —  always   playing   with 

tongue  or  with  pen,  — 
And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  —  Shall  we 

ever  be  men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing, 

and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling 

away  ?  <° 

Then  here  's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and 
its  gray ! 

The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its 
May! 

And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-last- 
ing toys, 

Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children, 
THE  BOYS  ! 

1859.  1859. 


AT   A   MEETING   OF   FRIENDS 

AUGUST  29,  1859* 

I  REMEMBER  —  why,  yes  !  God  bless  me  ! 

and  was  it  so  long  ago  ? 
I  fear  I  'm  growing  forgetful,  as  old  folks 

do,  you  know; 

«  Holmes's  fiftieth  birthday. 


376 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


It  must  have  been  in  'forty  —  I  would  say 

'thirty-nine  — 
We  talked  this  matter  over,  I  and  a'  friend 

of  mine. 

He    said,   'Well    now,    old    fellow,    I'm 

thinking  that  you  and  I, 
If  we  act  like  other  people,  shall  be  older 

by  and  by; 
What    though    the    bright   blue   ocean  is 

smooth  as  a  pond  can  be, 
There  is  always  a  line  of  breakers  to  fringe 

the  broadest  sea. 

*  We  're  taking  it  mighty  easy,  but  that  is 

nothing  strange, 
For  up  to  the  age  of  thirty  we  spend  our 

years  like  change;  10 

But  creeping  up  towards  the  forties,  as  fast 

as  the  old  years  fill, 
And  Time  steps  in  for  payment,  we  seem  to 

change  a  bill.' 

*I  know  it,'  I  said,  'old  fellow;  you  speak 

the  solemn  truth; 
A  man  can't  live  to  a  hundred  and  likewise 

keep  his  youth; 
But  what  if    the    ten    years  coming  shall 

silver-streak  my  hair, 
You  know  I  shall  then  be  forty;  of  course 

I  shall  not  care. 

« At  forty  a  man  grows  heavy  and  tired  of 

fun  and  noise ; 
Leaves  dress  to  the  five-and-twenties  and 

love  to  the  silly  boys; 
No  foppish  tricks  at  forty,  no  pinching  of 

waists  and  toes, 
But  high-low  shoes  and  flannels  and  good 

thick  worsted  hose.'  20 

But  one  fine  August  morning  I  found  my- 
self awake: 

My  birthday:  —  By  Jove,  I  'm  forty  !  Yes, 
forty  and  no  mistake  ! 

Why,  this  is  the  very  milestone,  I  think  I 
used  to  hold, 

That  when  a  fellow  had  come  to,  a  fellow 
would  then  be  old  ! 

But  that  is   the   young    folks'   nonsense; 

they  're  full  of  their  foolish  stuff; 
A  man  's  in  his  prime  at  forty,  —  I  see  that 

plain  enough; 


At  fifty  a  man  is  wrinkled,  and  may  be  bald 

or  gray  ; 
I  call  men  old  at  fifty,  in  spite  of  all  they 

say. 

At  last  comes  another  August  with  mist 
and  rain  and  shine ; 

Its  mornings  are  slowly  counted  and  creep 
to  twenty-nine,  3o 

And  when  on  the  western  summits  the  fad- 
ing light  appears, 

It  touches  with  rosy  fingers  the  last  of  my 
fifty  years. 

There   have   been   both  men   and   women 

whose  hearts  were  firm  and  bold, 
But  there  never  was  one  of  fifty  that  loved 

to  say  '  I  'm  old ; ' 
So  any  elderly  person  that  strives  to  shirk 

his  years, 
Make  him  stand  up  at  a  table  and  try  him 

by  his  peers. 

Now  here  I  stand  at  fifty,  my  jury  gathered 

round; 
Sprinkled  with  dust  of  silver,  but  not  yet 

silver-crowned, 
Ready  to  meet  your  verdict,  waiting  to  hear 

it  told; 
Guilty  of  fifty  summers;  speak  !     Is  the 

verdict  old?  40 

No  !  say  that  his   hearing    fails  him;   say 

that  his  sight  grows  dim ; 
Say  that  he  's  getting  wrinkled  and  weak  in 

back  and  limb, 
Losing  his  wits  and  temper,  but  pleading, 

to  make  amends, 
The  youth  of  his  fifty  summers  he  finds  in 

his  twenty  friends. 
1859.  (1877.) 

THE   TWO    STREAMS1 

BEHOLD  the  rocky  wall 
That  down  its  sloping  sides 
Pours   the   swift   rain-drops,   blending,  as 

they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides  ! 

Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 

1  This  and  the  three  following  poems  are  from  the 
Protestor  at  the  Breakfast  Table.  '  The  Boys  '  also  U 
included  in  that  volume. 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


377 


Is  Athabasca,  rolling  toward  the  sun 
Through  the  cleft  mountain-ledge. 

The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone, 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled  braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends, 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill, 
Each  widening  torrent  bends,  — 

From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee,  — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide, 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea  ! 

1859. 

UNDER   THE   VIOLETS 

HER  hands  are  cold ;  her  face  is  white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go ; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes ; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 

Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 

In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies.      10 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That    drinks    the    greenness   from    the 

ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  mn, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all.    20 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 

Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 
Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 


The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass.       30 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise  ! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below  ? 

Say  only  this:  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow.    40 
1859. 

HYMN  OF  TRUST 

O  LOVE  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear, 

On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care, 
We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art  near  ! 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread, 
And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering  year, 

No  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread, 

Our   hearts   still    whispering,   Thou   art 
near  ! 

When  drooping  pleasure  turns  to  grief, 
And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to  fear, 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering  leaf, 
Shall  softly  tell  us,  Thou  art  near  ! 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 

O  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 
Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 

Living  and  dying,  Thou  art  near  ! 

18591 


A  SUN-DAY  HYMN 

LORD  of  all  being  !  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star; 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere, 
Yet  to  each  loving  heart  how  near  ! 

Sun  of  our  life,  thy  quickening  ray 
Sheds  on  our  path  the  glow  of  day; 
Star  of  our  hope,  thy  softened  light 
Cheers  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn; 


373 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign; 
All,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine  ! 

Lord  of  all  life,  below,  above, 

Whose   light   is   truth,   whose   warmth    is 

love, 

Before  thy  ever-blazing  throne 
We  ask  no  lustre  of  our  own. 

Grant  us  thy  truth  to  make  us  free, 
And  kindling  hearts  that  burn  for  thee, 
Till  all  thy  living  altars  claim 
One  holy  light,  one  heavenly  flame  ! 

1859. 


PROLOGUE  TO  'SONGS  IN 
MANY  KEYS' 

THE  piping  of  our  slender,  peaceful  reeds 
Whispers  uncared  for  while  the  trumpets 

bray ; 

Song  is  thin  air;  our  hearts'  exulting  play 
Beats  time  but  to  the  tread  of  marching 

deeds, 
Following   the   mighty  van  that  Freedom 

leads, 

Her  glorious  standard  flaming  to  the  day  ! 
The   crimsoned  pavement    where   a  hero 

bleeds 

Breathes  nobler  lessons  than  the  poet's  lay. 
Strong  arms,  broad  breasts,  brave  hearts, 

are  better  worth 
Than  strains  that  sing  the  ravished  echoes 

dumb. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  loud  reverberating  drum 
Rolls  o'er  the  prairied  West,  the  rock-bound 

North: 

The  myriad-handed  Future  stretches  forth 
Its   shadowy  palms.   Behold,  we  come, — 

we  come  ! 

Turn  o'er  these  idle  leaves.   Such  toys  as 

these 
Were   not   unsought    for,   as,    in   languid 

dreams, 

We  lay  beside  our  lotus-feeding  streams, 
And  nursed  our  fancies  in  forgetful  ease. 
It  matters  little  if  they  pall  or  please, 
Dropping    untimely,     while     the    sudden 

gleams 
Glare   from   the   mustering   clouds  whose 

blackness  seems 
Too  swollen  to  hold  its  lightning  from  the 

trees. 


Yet,  in  some  lull  of  passion,  when  at  last 
These  calm  revolving  moons  that  come  and 

go  — 
Turning  our  months  to  years,  they  creep  sc- 

slow  — 
Have  brought  us  rest,  the  not  unwelcome 

past 
May  flutter  to  thee  through  these  leaflets, 

cast 

On  the  wild  winds  that  all  around  us  blow. 
1861.  1861. 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT 
FOR  SISTER  CAROLINE 

MARCH  25,  l86l 

SHE  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion 
and  pride,  — 

Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our 
side  ! 

She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firma- 
ment's glow, 

And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe  ! 

Oh,  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts  have 

been  one, — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's 

name, 
From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger 

of  flame  ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at   a 

touch ; 
But  we  said,  '  She  is  hasty,  —  she  does  not 

mean  much.'  10 

We  have  scowled,  when  you  uttered  some 

turbulent  threat; 
But    Friendship   still  whispered,  'Forgive 

and  forget  ! ' 

Has  our  love  all  died  out  ?   Have  its  altars 

grown  cold  ? 
Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers 

foretold  ? 
Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of 

the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in 

vain. 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged 

with  their  spoil, 
Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in 

the  soil. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


379 


Till  the  wolves  and  the  catamounts  troop 

from  their  caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of 

the  waves:  20 

In  vain  is  the  strife  !    When  its  fury  is  past, 

Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at 
last, 

As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  moun- 
tains of  snow 

Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys 
below. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky: 
Man  breaks  not  the  medal,  when  God  cuts 

the  die  ! 
Though   darkened    with    sulphur,   though 

cloven  with  steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will 

heal! 

Oh,  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  Fate  that  can  never 

be  won  !  30 

The   star-flowering  banner  must  never  be 

furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of 

the  world ! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister  !  afar  and  aloof, 
Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our 

roof; 
But  when  your  heart  aches  and  your  feet 

have  grown  sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our 

door ! 
March,  1861.  May,  1861. 


PARTING   HYMN 

' DUNDEE' 

FATHER  of  Mercies,  Heavenly  Friend, 

We  seek  thy  gracious  throne ; 
To  Thee  our  faltering  prayers  ascend, 

Our  fainting  hearts  are  known  ! 

From    blasts    that    chill,  from   suns  that 
smite, 

From  every  plague  that  harms; 
In  camp  and  march,  in  siege  and  fight, 

Protect  our  men-at-arms  ! 

Though  from  our  darkened  lives  they  take 
What  makes  our  life  most  dear, 


We  yield  them  for  their  country's  sake 
With  no  relenting  tear. 

Our  blood  their  flowing  veins  will  shed, 
Their  wounds  our  breasts  will  share; 

Oh,  save  us  from  the  woes  we  dread, 
Or  grant  us  strength  to  bear  ! 

Let  each  unhallowed  cause  that  brings 

The  stern  destroyer  cease, 
Thy  flaming  angel  fold  his  wings, 

And  seraphs  whisper  Peace  ! 

Thine  are  the  sceptre  and  the  sword, 
Stretch  forth  thy  mighty  hand,  — 

Reign  Thou  our  kingless  nation's  Lord, 

Rule  Thou  our  throneless  land  ! 
161.  .  August,  1861, 


UNION   AND    LIBERTY 

FLAG  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory, 
Borne  through  their  battle-fields'   thun- 
der and  flame, 

Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
Wave    6'er    us    all   who    inherit    their 

fame ! 

Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain 

to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  crv,  — 
UNION    AND     LIBERTY  !     ONE     EVEI. 

MORE  !  ,» 

Light  of  our  firmament,  guide  of  our  Na- 
tion, 
Pride    of     her    children,   and     honored 

afar, 

Let  the  wide  beams  of  thy  full  constella- 
tion 
Scatter  each  cloud  that  would  darken  a 

star  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Empire  imsceptred !  what  foe  shall  assail 

thee, 

Bearing  the  standard  of  Liberty's  van  ? 
Think  not  the  God  of  thy  fathers  shall  fail 

thee, 
Striving  with  men  for  the  birthright  of 

man  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc.          20 


380 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Yet  if,  by  madness  and  treachery  blighted, 
Dawns   the  dark  hour  when  the  sword 

thou  must  draw, 

Then  with  the  arms  of  thy  millions  united, 
Smite  the    bold  traitors  to  Freedom  and 

Law! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Lord  of  the  Universe  !   shield  us  and  guide 

us, 
Trusting  Thee  always,  through  shadow 

and  sun ! 

Thou  hast  united  us,  who  shall  divide  us  ? 
Keep  us,  oh  keep  us  the  MANY  IN  ONE  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  3o 

Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain 

to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
UNION    AND    LIBERTY  !     ONE    EVER- 
MORE ! 
1861.  December,  1861. 


J.    D.   R.i 

1862 

THE  friends  that  are,  and  friends  that  were, 

What  shallow  waves  divide  ! 
I  miss  the  form  for  many  a  year 

Still  seated  at  my  side. 

I  miss  him,  yet  I  feel  him  still 

Amidst  our  faithful  band, 
As  if  not  death  itself  could  chill 

The  warmth  of  friendship's  hand. 

His  story  other  lips  may  tell,  — 

For  me  the  veil  is  drawn; 
I  only  know  he  loved  me  well, 

He  loved  me  —  and  is  gone  ! 
1862.  1862. 


TO   MY   READERS2 

NAY,  blame  me  not;  I  might  have  spared 
Your  patience  many  a  trivial  verse, 

Yet  these  my  earlier  welcome  shared, 
So,  let  the  better  shield  the  worse. 

'  James  D.  Russell,  a  classmate  of  Holmes. 
2  Written  as  a  prologue  to  the  collected  edition  of 
Holmes's  poems  published  in  1862. 


And  some  might  say,  '  Those  ruder  songs 
Had  freshness  which  the  new  have  lost; 

To  spring  the  opening  leaf  belongs, 
The  chestnut-burs  await  the  frost.' 

When  those  I  wrote,  my  locks  were  brown, 
When  these  I  write  —  ah,  well-a-day  !  10 

The  autumn  thistle's  silvery  down 
Is  not  the  purple  bloom  of  May  ! 

Go,  little  book,  whose  pages  hold 

Those  garnered  years  in  loving  trust; 

How  long  before  your  blue  and  gold 
Shall  fade  and  whiten  in  the  dust  ? 

0  sexton  of  the  alcoved  tomb, 

Where  souls  in  leathern  cerements  lie, 
Tell  me  each  living  poet's  doom  ! 

How  long  before  his  book  shall  die  ?     20 

It  matters  little,  soon  or  late, 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year,  an  age,  — 

1  read  oblivion  in  its  date, 
And  Finis  on  its  title-page. 

Before  we  sighed,  our  griefs  were  told; 

Before  we  smiled,  our  joys  were  sung; 
And  all  our  passions  shaped  of  old 

In  accents  lost  to  mortal  tongue. 

In  vain  a  fresher  mould  we  seek,  — 

Can  all  the  varied  phrases  tell  3o 

That  Babel's  wandering  children  speak 
How  thrushes  sing  or  lilacs  smell  ? 

Caged  in  the  poet's  lonely  heart, 

Love  wastes  unheard  its  tenderest  tone; 

The  soul  that  sings  must  dwell  apart, 
Its  inward  melodies  unknown. 

Deal  gently  with  us,  ye  who  read  ! 

Our  largest  hope  is  unfulfilled,  — 
The  promise  still  outruns  the  deed,  — 

The  tower,  but  not  the  spire,  we  build.  4a 

Our  whitest  pearl  we  never  find; 

Our  ripest  fruit  we  never  reach; 
The  flowering  moments  of  the  mind 

Drop  half  their  petals  in  our  speech. 

These  are  my  blossoms;  if  they  wear 
One  streak  of  morn  or  evening's  glow, 

Accept  them;  but  to  me  more  fair 
The  buds  of  song  that  never  blow. 

1862.  1862. 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


381 


VOYAGE   OF  THE   GOOD   SHIP 
UNION1 

1862 

'T  IS     midnight :    through     my    troubled 

dream 

Loud  wails  the  tempest's  cry; 
Before  the  gale,  with  tattered  sail, 

A  ship  goes  plunging  by. 
What  name  ?   Where  bound  ?  —  The  rocks 

around 
Repeat  the  loud  halloo. 

—  The  good  ship  Union,  Southward  bound: 
God  help  her  and  her  crew  ! 

And  is  the  old  flag  flying  still 

That  o'er  your  fathers  flew,  10 

With  bands  of  white  and  rosy  light, 

And  field  of  starry  blue  ? 

—  Ay  !  look  aloft  !  its  folds  full  oft 
Have  braved  the  roaring  blast, 

And  still  shall  fly  when  from  the  sky 
This  black  typhoon  has  past  ! 

Speak,  pilot  of  the  storm-tost  bark  ! 
May  I  thy  peril  share  ? 

—  O  landsman,  there  are  fearful  seas 

The  brave  alone  may  dare  !  20 

—  Nay,  ruler  of  the  rebel  deep, 
What  matters  wind  or  wave  ? 

The  rocks  that  wreck  your  reeling  deck 
Will  leave  me  naught  to  save  ! 

O  landsman,  art  thou  false  or  true  ? 
What  sign  hast  thou  to  show  ? 

—  The  crimson  stains  from  loyal  veins 
That  hold  my  heart-blood's  flow  ! 

—  Enough  !  what  more  shall  honor  claim  ? 
I  know  the  sacred  sign;  30 

Above  thy  head  our  flag  shall  spread, 
Our  ocean  path  be  thine  ! 

The  bark  sails  on ;  the  Pilgrim's  Cape 

Lies  low  along  her  lee, 
Whose  headland  crooks  its  anchor-flukes 

To  lock  the  shore  and  sea. 
No  treason  here  !  it  cost  too  dear 

To  win  this  barren  realm  ! 
And  true  and  free  the  hands  must  be 

That  hold  the  whaler's  helm  !  40 

Still  on  !   Manhattan's  narrowing  bay 
No  rebel  cruiser  scars; 

1  Written  for  a  reunion  of  the  class  of  '29. 


Her  waters  feel  no  pirate's  keel 
That  flaunts  the  fallen  stars  ! 

—  But  watch  the  light  on  yonder  height,  — 
Ay,  pilot,  have  a  care  ! 

Some  lingering  cloud  in  mist  may  shroud 
The  capes  of  Delaware  ! 

Say,  pilot,  what  this  fort  may  be, 

Whose  sentinels  look  down  50 

From  moated  walls  that  show  the  sea 

Their  deep  embrasures'  frown  ? 
The  Rebel  host  claims  all  the  coast, 

But  these  are  friends,  we  know, 
Whose  footprints  spoil  the  '  sacred  soil,' 

And  this  is  ?  —  Fort  Monroe  ! 

The  breakers  roar,  —  how  bears  the  shore  ? 

—  The  traitorous  wreckers'  hands 
Have  quenched  the  blaze  that  poured  its 
rays 

Along  the  Hatteras  sands.  60 

—  Ha  !  say  not  so  !    I  see  its  glow  ! 
Again  the  shoals  display 

The  beacon  light  that  shines  by  night, 
The  Union  Stars  by  day  ! 

The  good  ship  flies  to  milder  skies, 

The  wave  more  gently  flows, 
The  softening  breeze  wafts  o'er  the  seas 

The  breath  of  Beaufort's  rose. 
What  fold  is  this  the  sweet  winds  kiss, 

Fair-striped  and  many-starred,  70 

Whose  shadow  palls  these  orphaned  walls, 

The  twins  of  Beauregard  ? 

What !  heard  you  not  Port  Royal's  doom  ? 

How  the  black  war-ships  came 
And  turned  the  Beaufort  roses'  bloom 

To  redder  wreaths  of  flame  ? 
How  from  Rebellion's  broken  reed 

We  saw  his  emblem  fall, 
As  soon  his  cursed  poison-weed 

Shall  drop  from  Sumter's  wall  ?  80 

On  !  on  !   Pulaski's  iron  hail 

Falls  harmless  on  Tybee  ! 
The  good  ship  feels  the  freshening  gales, 

She  strikes  the  open  sea; 
She  rounds  the  point,  she  threads  the  keys 

That  guard  the  Land  of  Flowers, 
And  rides  at  last  where  firm  and  fast 

Her  own  Gibraltar  towers  ! 

The  good  ship  Union's  voyage  is  o'er, 
At  anchor  safe  she  swings,  90 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


And  loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer 

Her  joyous  welcome  rings: 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  it  shakes  the  wave, 

It  thunders  on  the  shore,  — 
One  flag,  one  land,  one  heart,  one  hand, 

One  Nation,  evermore  ! 
1862.  March,  1862. 


BRYANT'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTH- 
DAY 

NOVEMBER   3,    1864 

O  EVEN-HANDED  Nature  !  we  confess 
This  life  that  men  so  honor,  love,  and  bless 
Has  filled  thine  olden  measure.     Not  the 


We  count  the  precious  seasons  that  remain; 
Strike  not  the  level  of  the  golden  grain, 
But  heap   it    high  with   years,  that  earth 
may  gain 

What  heaven  can  lose,  —  for  heaven  is  rich 


Do  not  all  poets,  dying,  still  prolong 
Their  broken  chants  amid  the  seraph  throng, 

Where,  blind  no  more,  Ionia's  bard  is 
seen,  10 

And  England's  heavenly  minstrel  sits  be- 
tween 

The  Mantuan  and  the  wan-cheeked  Floren- 
tine ? 

This  was  the  first  sweet  singer  in  the  cage 
Of  our  close-woven  life.  A  new-born  age 
Claims  in  his  vesper  song  its  heritage: 

Spare  us,  oh  spare  us  long  our  heart's  de- 
sire ! 

Moloch,  who  calls  our  children  through  the 
fire, 

Leaves  us  the  gentle  master  of  the  lyre. 

We  count  not  on  the  dial  of  the  sun 
The  hours,  the  minutes,  that  his  sands  have 
run ;  20 

Rather,  as  on  those  flowers  that  one  by  one 

From   earliest   dawn  their  ordered  bloom 

display 

Till  evening's  planet  with  her  guiding  ray 
Leads  in  the  blind  old  mother  of  the  day, 


We    reckon    by    his    songs,    each    song  a 

flower, 
The  long,  long  daylight,  numbering  hour 

by  hour, 
Each   breathing    sweetness    like    a   bridal 

bower. 

His  morning  glory  shall  we  e'er  forget  ? 
His  noontide's  full-blown  lily  coronet  ? 
His  evening  primrose  has  not  opened  yet;  30 

Nay,  even  if  creeping  Time  should  hide  the 

skies 

In  midnight  from  his  century-laden  eyes, 
Darkened  like  his  who  sang  of  Paradise, 

Would   not    some   hidden   song-bud   open 

bright 

As  the  resplendent  cactus  of  the  night 
That  floods  the  gloom  with  fragrance  and 

with  light  ? 

How  can  we  praise  the  verse  whose  music 

flows 

With  solemn  cadence  and  majestic  close,  • 
Pure  as  the  dew  that  filters  through  the 

rose  ? 

How  shall  we  thank  him  that  in  evil  days  40 
He  faltered  never,  —  nor  for  blame,  nor 

praise, 
Nor   hire,  nor   party,  shamed   his   earlier 

lays? 

But  as  his  boyhood  was  of  manliest  hue, 
So   to   bis    youth   his   manly   years   were 

true, 
All   dyed   in    royal    purple    through    and 

through  ! 

He  for  whose  touch  the  lyre  of  Heaven  is 

strung 
Needs   not   the   flattering   toil   of    mortal 

tongue: 
Let  not  the  singer  grieve  to  die  unsung  ! 

Marbles  forget  their  message  to  mankind: 
In  his  own  verse  the  poet  still  we  find,  50 
In  his  own  page  his  memory  lives  enshrined, 

As  in  their  amber  sweets   the   smothered 

bees,— 

As  the  fair  cedar,  fallen  before  the  breeze, 
Lies  self-embalmed  amidst  the  mouldering 

trees. 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


383 


Poets,  like  youngest  children,  never  grow 
Out  of  their  mother's  fondness.    Nature  so 
Holds  their   soft   hands,  and  will  not  let 
them  go, 

Till  at  the  last  they,  track  with  even  feet 
Her  rhythmic   footsteps,  atid  their  pulses 

beat 

Twinned  with  her  pulses,  and  their  lips  re- 
peat 60 

The   secrets   she   has   told  them,  as  their 

own: 

Thus  is  the  inmost  soul  of  Nature  known, 
And   the   rapt   minstrel  shares  her  awful 

throne  ! 

O  lover  of  her  mountains  and  her  woods, 
Her  bridal  chamber's  leafy  solitudes, 
Where  Love  himself  with  tremulous  step 
intrudes, 

Her   snows   fall   harmless    on  thy   sacred 

fire: 
Far  be  the  day  that  claims  thy  sounding 

lyre 
To  join  the  music  of  the  angel  choir  ! 

Yet,  since  life's  amplest  measure  must  be 
filled,  7o 

Since  throbbing  hearts  must  be  forever 
stilled, 

And  all  must  fade  that  evening  sunsets  gild, 

Grant,  Father,  ere  he  close  the  mortal  eyes 
That  see  a  Nation's  reeking  sacrifice, 
Its  smoke  may  vanish  from  these  blackened 
skies  ! 

Then,  when  his  summons  comes,  since  come 

it  must, 
And,  looking  heavenward  with  unfaltering 

trust, 
He  wraps  his  drapery  round  him  for  the 

dust, 

His  last  fond  glance  will  show  him  o'er  his 

head 
The  Northern  fires  beyond  the  zenith 

spread  80 

In   lambent    glory,   blue    and   white    and 

red, — 

The  Southern  cross  without  its  bleeding 
load. 


The  milky  way  of  peace  all  freshly  strowed, 
And  every  white-throned  star  fixed  in  its 


lost  abode  ! 


1864. 


MY   ANNUAL1 
1866 

How  long  will  this  harp  which  you  once 

loved  to  hear 
Cheat  your  lips  of  a  smile  or  your  eyes  of 

a  tear? 

How  long  stir  the  echoes  it  wakened  of  old, 
While   its   strings   were   unbroken,  untar- 

nished its  gold  ? 

Dear  friends  of  my  boyhood,  my  words  do 

you  wrong; 
The  heart,  the  heart  only,  shall  throb   in 

my  song; 
It  reads  the  kind  answer  that  looks  from 

your  eyes,  — 
'  We  will  bid  our  old  harper  play  on  tiU 

he  dies.' 

Though  Youth,  the  fair  angel  that  looker 

o'er  the  strings, 
Has  lost  the  bright  glory  that  gleamed  on 

his  wings,  10 

Though    the    freshness    of    morning    has 

passed  from  its  tone, 
It  is  still  the  old  harp  that  was   always 


I  claim  not  its  music,  —  each  note  it  affords 
I  strike  from  your  heart-strings,  that  lend 

me  its  chords; 

I  know  you  will  listen  and  love  to  the  last, 
For  it  trembles  and  thrills  witty  the  voice 

of  your  past. 

Ah,   brothers  !   dear   brothers  !    the   harp 

that  I  hold 
No  craftsman  could  string  and  no  artisan 

mould; 
He  shaped  it,  He  strung  it,  who  fashioned 

the  lyres 
That  ring  with  the  hymns  of  the  seraphim 

choirs.  20 

Not  mine  are  the  visions  of  beauty  it  brings, 
Not  mine  the  faint  fragrance  around  it  that 
clings; 

1  For  a  reunion  of  the  claas  of  '29. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Those  shapes  are  the  phantoms  of  years 
that  are  fled, 

Those  sweets  breathe  from  roses  your  sum- 
mers have  shed. 

Each  hour  of  the  past  lends  its  tribute  to 

this, 
Till  it  blooms  like  a  bower  in  the  Garden 

of  Bliss; 
The  thorn  and  the  thistle  may  grow  as  they 

will, 
Where  Friendship  unfolds  there  is  Paradise 

still. 

The  bird  wanders  careless  while  summer 


The  leaf- 


en, 


n  cradle  that  rocked  him 


When  Autumn's   rude   fingers   the  woods 

have  undressed, 
The  boughs  may  look  bare,  but  they  show 

him  his  nest. 

Too  precious  these  moments  !  the  lustre 
they  fling 

Is  the  light  of  our  year,  is  the  gem  of  its 
ring, 

So  brimming  with  sunshine,  we  almost  for- 
get 

The  rays  it  has  lost,  and  its  border  of  jet. 

While  round  us  the  many-hued  halo  is  shed, 

How  dear  are  the  living,  how  near  are  the 
dead! 

One  circle,  scarce  broken,  these  waiting  be- 
low, 

Those  walking  the  shores  where  the  aspho- 
dels blow !  40 

Not  life  shall  enlarge  it  nor  death  shall 
divide,  — 

No  brother  new-born  finds  his  place  at  my 
side; 

No  titles  shall  freeze  us,  no  grandeurs  in- 
fest, 

His  Honor,  His  Worship,  are  boys  like  the 
rest. 

Some  won  the  world's  homage,  their  names 
we  hold  dear,  — 

But  Friendship,  not  Fame,  is  the  counter- 
sign here; 

Make  room  by  the  conqueror  crowned  in 
the  strife 

For  the  comrade  that  limps  from  the  battle 
of  life  ! 


What  tongue  talks  of  battle  ?   Too  long  we 

have  heard 

In  sorrow,  in  anguish,  that  terrible  word; 
It  reddened  the  sunshine,  it  crimsoned  the 

wave,  5i 

It  sprinkled  our  doors  with  the  blood  of 

our  brav%. 

Peace,  Peace  comes  at  last,  with  her  garland 
of  white; 

Peace  broods  in  all  hearts  as  we  gather  to- 
night; 

The  blazon  of  Union  spreads  full  in  the  sun; 

We  echo  its  words,  —  We  are  one  !  We 
are  one ! 

1866.  1866. 

ALL  HERE1 


That  keeps  our  charm  so  long  unbroken, 
Though  every  lightest  leaf  we  bring 

May  touch  the  heart  as  friendship's  token; 
Not  what  we  sing  or  what  we  say 

Can  make  us  dearer  to  each  other; 
We  love  the  singer  and  his  lay, 

But  love  as  well  the  silent  brother. 

Yet  bring  whate'er  your  garden  grows, 
Thrice    welcome    to    our     smiles     and 


Thanks  for  the  myrtle  and  the  rose, 
Thanks  for  the  marigolds  and  daisies; 

One  flower  ere  long  we  all  shall  claim, 
Alas  !  unloved  of  Amaryllis  — 

Nature's  last  blossom  —  need  I  name 
The  wreath  of  threescore's  silver  lilies  ? 

How  many,  brothers,  meet  to-night 

Around  our  boyhood's  covered  embers  ? 
Go  read  the  treasured  names  aright 

The  old  triennial  list  remembers;  2* 

Though  twenty  wear  the  starry  sign 

That  tells  a  life  has  broke  its  tether, 
The  fifty-eight  of  'twenty-nine  — 

God  bless  THE  BOYS  !  —  are  all  together ! 

These  come  with  joyous  look  and  word, 
With  friendly  grasp  and  cheerful  greet- 
ing, — 
Those  smile  unseen,  and  move  unheard, 

The  angel  guests  of  every  meeting; 
They  cast  no  shadow  in  the  flame 

That  flushes  from  the  gilded  lustre,       30 
1  For  the  claas  reunion,  1867. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


385 


But  count  us  —  we  are  still  the  same; 
One   earthly  band,   one   heavenly   clus- 
ter! 

Love  dies  not  when  he  bows  his  head 

To  pass  beyond  the  narrow  portals,  — 
The  light  these  glowing  moments  shed 
Wakes  from  their  sleep  our  lost  immor- 
tals; 
They  come  as  in  their  joyous  prime, 

Before  their  morning  days   were  num- 
bered, — 

Death  stays  the  envious  hand  of  Time,  — 
The  eyes  have  not  grown  dim  that  slum- 
bered !  4o 

The  paths  that  loving  souls  have  trod 
Arch   o'er    the    dust   where   worldlings 

grovel 
High  as  the  zenith  o'er  the  sod,  — 

The  cross  above  the  sexton's  shovel  ! 
We  rise  beyond  the  realms  of  day ; 

They    seem   to   stoop   from  spheres    of 

glory 
With  us  one  happy  hour  to  stray, 

While   youth  comes   back   in   song  and 
story. 

Ah !  ours  is  friendship  true  as  steel 

That  war  has  tried  in  edge  and  temper; 
If  writes  upon  its  sacred  seal  51 

The  priest's  ubique  —  omnes  —  semper  .' 
It  lends  the  sky  a  fairer  sun 

That  cheers  our  lives  with  rays  as  steady 
As  if  our  footsteps  had  begun 

To  print  the  golden  streets  already  ! 

The  tangling  years  have  clinched  its  knot 

Too  fast  for  mortal  strength  to  sunder; 
The  lightning  bolts  of  noon  are  shot; 

No  fear  of  evening's  idle  thunder  !         60 
Too  late  !  too  late  !  —  no  graceless  hand 

Shall  stretch  its  cords  in  vain  endeavor 
To  rive  the  close  encircling  band 

That  made  and  keeps  us  one  forever  ! 

So  when  upon  the  fated  scroll 

The  falling  stars  have  all  descended, 
And,  blotted  from  the  breathing  roll, 

Our  little  page  of  life  is  ended, 
We  ask  but  one  memorial  line 

Traced  on  thy  tablet,  Gracious  Mother: 
'My  children.    Boys  of '29.  7i 

In  pace.   How  they  loved  each  other  ! ' 
1867.  1867. 


BILL  AND   JOEi 

COME,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  days  gone  by, 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
And  all  was  bright  with  morning  dew, 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail 

Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail, 

And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 

As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare;  ic 

To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 

That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You  've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 
And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 
With  HON.  and  L  L.  D. 
In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see,  — 
Your  fist,  old  fellow  !  off  they  go  !  — 
How  are  you,  Bill  ?     How  are  you,  Joe  ? 

You  've  worn  the  judge's  ermined  robe; 
You  've  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe ; 
You  've  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain;  *i 
You  've  made  the  dead  past  live  again: 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will, 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say 
'  See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray,  — 
They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens  ! 
Mad,    poor    old    boys !     That  's    what   it 

means,'  — 

And  shake  their  heads;  they  little  know 
The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe  !  —  3o 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side ; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame  ? 

A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame ; 

A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 

That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust;  40 

A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 

Which  dust  was  Bill  and  which  was  Joe  ? 

The  weary  idol  takes  his  stand, 
Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand, 
1  For  the  class  reunion,  1868. 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go,  — 
How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show  ! 
Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill;  — 
T  is  poor  old  Joe's  « God  bless  you,  Bill ! ' 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears ;  50 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long, 
Just  whispering  of  the  world  below 
Where  this  was  Bill  and  that  was  Joe  ? 

No  matter;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say  ? 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Hie  jacet  Joe.     Hicjacet  Bill.  60 

1868.  1868. 

NEARING   THE   SNOW-LINE 

SLOW  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale, 
I  leave  the  bright  enamelled  zones  below; 
No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom  shall 

glow, 
Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning 

gale; 

Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless,  pale, 
That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling 

blow 

Along  the  margin  of  unmelting  snow; 
Yet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail, 
White  realm  of  peace  above  the  flowering 

line; 
Welcome    thy    frozen   domes,    thy    rocky 

spires  ! 
O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt  planets 

shine, 

On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain  de- 
sires, 
And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is 

thine  ! 
1870.  1870. 

DOROTHY   Qi 

A    FAMILY   PORTRAIT 

GRANDMOTHER'S  mother:  her  age,  I  guess, 
Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less; 

1  I  cannot  tell  the  story  of  Dorothy  Q.  more  simply 
in  prose  than  I  have  told  it  in  verse,  but  I  can  add 
something  to  it. 


Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air; 

Smooth,    square    forehead     with    uprolled 

hair; 

Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed; 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist; 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade ; 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 

Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene.  10 

Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 

Look !    there 's  a  rent    the    light   shines 

through, 

Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust,  — 
That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust ! 
Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell,  — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed, 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed ;  20 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 

Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born  ! 

Ay  !  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 

England's  annals  have  known  her  name; 

And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town 

Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown,  3o 

For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 

The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son. 

O  Damsel  Dorothy  !  Dorothy  Q. ! 

Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you  ; 

Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 

Save  to  daughter  or  son  might  bring,  — 

All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 

All  my  title  to  house  and  land; 

Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 

And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and  life  !   40 

Dorothy  was  the  daughter  of  Judge  Edmund  Quiiicy, 
and  the  niece  of  Josiah  Quiiicy,  junior,  the  young 
patriot  and  orator  who  died  just  before  the  American 
Revolution,  of  which  he  was  one  of  the  most  eloquent 
and  effective  promoters.  The  son  of  the  latter,  Josiah 
Quincy,  the  first  mayor  of  Boston  bearing  that  name, 
lived  to  a  great  age,  one  of  the  most  useful  and  honored 
citizens  of  his  time. 

The  canvas  of  the  painting  was  BO  much  decayed  that 
it  had  to  be  replaced  by  a  new  one,  in  doing  which  the 
rapier  thrust  was  of  course  filled  up.  (HOLMES.) 

See  Morse's  Life  of  Holmes,  vol.  i,  pp.  17  and  231- 
232. 

For  a  reproduction  of  the  portrait,  see  Scribner't 
Magazine,  May,  1879. 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


387 


What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No, 

When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 

That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name, 

And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 

The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's  thrill  ? 

Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 

One  tenth  another,  to  nine  tenths,  me  ? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  YES: 
Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less;      50 
But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 
Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 
And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 
That  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so  long  ! 
There  were  tones  in  the  voice  that  whis- 
pered then 
You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men. 

0  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  —  and  here  we  are, 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's  —  all  their  own,  — 
A  goodly  record  for  Time  to  show  61 
Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago  !  — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive 

For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me  live  ? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid  ! 

1  will  heal  the  stab  of  the  Red-Coat's  blade, 
And    freshen   the.   gold  of    the    tarnished 

frame, 
And   gild   with   a  rhyme   your  household 

name ; 

So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light,  70 
Aind  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through   a   second    youth   of   a    hundred 

years. 

1871. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  BREAK- 
FAST-TABLE SERIES 

AUTOCRAT  —  PROFESSOR  —  POET 
AT   A    BOOKSTORE 

Anno  Domini  1972 

A  CRAZY  bookcase,  placed  before 
A  low-price  dealer's  open  door; 
Therein  arrayed  in  broken  rows 
A  ragged  crew  of  rhyme  and  prose, 
The  homeless  vagrants,  waifs,  and  strays 
Whose  low  estate  this  line  betrays 


(Set  forth  the  lesser  birds  to  lime) 
YOUR     CHOICE     AMONG    THESE    BOOKS 
1  DIME  ! 

Ho  !  dealer;  for  its  motto's  sake 
This  scarecrow  from  the  shelf  I  take;       K 
Three  starveling  volumes  bound  in  one, 
Its  covers  warping  in  the  sun. 
Methinks  it  hath  a  musty  smell, 
I  like  its  flavor  none  too  well, 
But  Yorick's  brain  was  far  from  dull, 
Though  Hamlet  pah  !  'd,  and  dropped  his 
skull. 

Why,  here   comes   rain  !   The   sky  grows 

dark,  — 

Was  that  the  roll  of  thunder  ?   Hark  ! 
The  shop  affords  a  safe  retreat, 
A  chair  extends  its  welcome  seat,  20 

The  tradesman  has  a  civil  look 
(I  've  paid,  impromptu,  for  my  book), 
The  clouds  portend  a  sudden  shower,  — 
I  '11  read  my  purchase  for  an  hour. 


What  have  I  rescued  from  the  shelf  ? 

A  Boswell,  writing  out  himself  ! 

For  though  he  changes  dress  and  name, 

The  man  beneath  is  still  the  same, 

Laughing  or  sad,  by  fits  and  starts, 

One  actor^in  a  dozen  parts,  39 

And  whatsoe'er  the  mask  may  be, 

The  voice  assures  us,  This  is  he. 

I  say  not  this  to  cry  him  down; 
I  find  my  Shakespeare  in  his  clown, 
His  rogues  the  selfsame  parent  own; 
Nay  !  Satan  talks  in  Milton's  tone  ! 
Where'er  the  ocean  inlet  strays, 
The  salt  sea  wave  its  source  betrays; 
Where'er  the  queen  of  summer  blows, 
She  tells  the  zephyr,  '  I  'm  the  roseM  '        40 

And  his  is  not  the  playwright's  page; 
His  table  does  not  ape  the  stage; 
What  matter  if  the  figures  seen 
Are  only  shadows  on  a  screen, 
He  finds  in  them  his  lurking  thought, 
And  on  their  lips  the  words  he  sought, 
Like  one  who  sits  before  the  keys 
And  plays  a  tune  himself  to  please. 

And  was  he  noted  in  his  day  ? 
Read,  flattered,  honored  ?    Who  shall  say  ? 
Poor  wreck  of  time  the  wave  has  cast        SL 
To  find  a  peaceful  shore  at  last, 


388 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Once  glorying  in  thy  gilded 
And  freighted  deep  with  hopes  of  fame, 
Thy  leaf  is  moistened  with  a  tear, 
The  first  for  many  a  long,  long  year  ! 

For  be  it  more  or  less  of  art 

That  veils  the  lowliest  human  heart 

Where   passion   throbs,   where    friendship 

glows, 

Where  pity's  tender  tribute  flows,  60 

Where  love  lias  lit  its  fragrant  fire, 
And  sorrow  quenched  its  vain  desire, 
For  me  the  altar  is  divine, 
Its  flame,  its  ashes,  —  all  are  mine  ! 

And  thou,  my  brother,  as  I  look 
And  see  thee  pictured  in  thy  book, 
Thy  years  on  every  page  confessed 
In  shadows  lengthening  from  the  west, 
Thy  glance  that  wanders,  as  it  sought 
Some  freshly  opening  flower  of  thought,  70 
Thy  hopeful  nature,  light  and  free, 
I  start  to  find  myself  in  thee  ! 


Come,  vagrant,  outcast,  wretch  forlorn 
In  leather  jerkin  stained  and  torn, 
Whose  talk  has  filled  my  idle  hour 
And  made  me  half  forget  the  shower, 
I  '11  do  at  least  as  much  for  you, 
Your  coat  I  '11  patch,  your  gilt  re'new, 
Read  you  — perhaps  —  some  other  time. 
Not  bad,  my  bargain  !    Price  one  dime  !     80 
1872.  1872. 


PROGRAMME1 

OCTOBER  7,   1874 

READER  —  gentle  —  if  so  be 
Such  still  live,  and  live  for  me, 
Will  it  please  you  to  be  told 
What  my  tenscore  pages  hold  ? 

Here  are  verges  that  in  spite 

Of  myself  I  needs  must  write, 

Like  the  wine  that  oozes  first 

When  the  unsqueezed  grapes  have  burst. 

Here  are  angry  lines,  '  too  hard  ! ' 

Says  the  soldier,  battle-scarred.  10 

1  Written  to  introduce  the  Songs  of  Many  Seasons, 
which  contained  a  large  number  of  Holmes's  '  occa- 


Could  I  smile  his  scars  away 
I  would  blot  the  bitter  lay, 

Written  with  a  knitted  brow, 
Read  with  placid  wonder  now. 
Throbbed  such  passion  in  my  heart  ? 
Did  his  wounds  once  really  smart  ? 

Here  are  varied  strains  that  sing 
All  the  changes  life  can  bring, 
Songs  when  joyous  friends  have  met, 
Songs  the  mourner's  tears  have  wet.      21 

See  the  banquet's  dead  bouquet, 
Fair  and  fragrant  in  its  day; 
Do  they  read  the  selfsame  lines,  — 
He  that  fasts  and  he  that  dines  ? 

Year  by  year,  like  milestones  placed, 
Mark  the  record  Friendship  traced. 
Prisoned  in  the  walls  of  time 
Life  has  notched  itself  in  rhyme: 

As  its  seasons  slid  along, 

Every  year  a  notch  of  song,  30 

From  the  June  of  long  ago, 

When  the  rose  was  full  in  blow, 

Till  the  scarlet  sage  has  come 
And  the  cold  chrysanthemum. 
Read,  but  not  to  praise  or  blame ; 
Are  not  all  our  hearts  the  same  ? 

For  the  rest,  they  take  their  chance,  — 
Some  may  pay  a  passing  glance; 
Others,  —  well,  they  served  a  turn,  — 
Wherefore  written,  would  you  learn  ?  4o 

Not  for  glory,  not  for  pelf, 
Not,  be  sure,  to  please  myself, 
Not  for  any  meaner  ends,  — 
Always  '  by  request  of  friends.' 

Here  's  the  cousin  of  a  king,  — 
Would  I  do  the  civil  thing  ? 
Here  's  the  first-born  of  a  queen: 
Here 's  a  slant-eyed  Mandarin. 

Would  I  polish  off  Japan  ? 

Would  I  greet  this  famous  man,  je 

Prince  or  Prelate,  Sheik  or  Shah  ?  — 
Figaro  <ji  and  Figaro  la  ! 

Would  I  just  this  once  comply  ?  — 
So  they  teased  and  teased  till  I 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


389 


(Be  the  truth  at  once  confessed) 
Wavered  —  yielded  —  did  my  best. 

Turn  my  pages,  —  never  mind 
If  you  like  not  all  you  find; 
Think  not  all  the  grains  are  gold 
Sacramento's  sand-banks  hold.  60 

Every  kernel  has  its  shell, 
Every  chime  its  harshest  bell, 
Every  face  its  weariest  look, 
Every  shelf  its  emptiest  book, 

Every  field  its  leanest  sheaf, 
Every  book  its  dullest  leaf, 
Every  leaf  its  weakest  line,  — 
Shall  it  not  be  so  with  mine  ? 

Best  for  worst  shall  make  amends, 
Find  us,  keep  us,  leave  us  friends      70 
Till,  perchance,  we  meet  again. 
Benedicite.  —  Amen  ! 

1874. 


GRANDMOTHER'S       STORY 
BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE 


OF 


AS  SHE  SAW  IT  FROM  THE  BELFRY 

'T  is  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at 

eighty,  one  remembers 
All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of  '  the 

times  that  tried  men's  souls; '  a 

1  The  story  of  Bunker  Hill  battle  is  told  as  literally 
in  accordance  with  the  best  authorities  as  it  would  have 
been  if  it  had  been  written  in  prose  instead  of  in  verse. 
I  have  often  been  asked  what  steeple  it  was  from  which 
the  little  group  I  speak  of  looked  upon  the  conflict. 
To  this  I  answer  that  I  am  not  prepared  to  speak 
authoritatively,  but  that  the  reader  may  take  his  choice 
among  all  the  steeples  standing  at  that  time  in  the 
northern  part  of  the  city.  Christ  Church  in  Salem 
Street  is  the  one  I  always  think  of,  but  I  do  not  insist 
upon  its  claim.  As  to  the  personages  who  made  up  the 
small  company  that  followed  the  old  corporal,  it  would 
be  hard  to  identify  them,  but  by  ascertaining  where 
the  portrait  by  Copley  is  now  to  be  found,  some  light 
may  be  thrown  on  their  personality. 

Daniel  Malcolm's  gravestone,  splintered  by  British 
bullets,  may  be  seen  in  the  Copp's  Hill  burial-ground. 
(HOLMES.) 

This  poem  was  first  published  in  1875,  in  connection 
with  the  centenary  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  The 
belfry  could  hardly  have  been  that  of  Christ  Church, 
since  tradition  says  that  General  Gage  was  stationed 
there  watching  the  battle,  and  we  may  make  it  to  be 
what  was  known  as  the  New  Brick  Church,  built  in 
1721,  on  Hanover,  corner  of  Richmond  Street,  Boston, 
^ebuilt  of  stone  in  1845,  and  pulled  down  at  the  widen- 
ing of  Hanover  Street  in  1871.  There  are  many  narra- 
tives of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  Frothingham's 
Hittory  of  the  Siege  of  Boston  is  one  of  tho  most  com- 


When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when  I  tell 

the  Rebel  story, 
To  you  the  words  are  ashes,  but  to  me 

they  're  burning  coals. 

I  had  heard   the   muskets'   rattle   of  the 

April  running  battle; 
Lord   Percy's   hunted   soldiers,  I  can  see 

their  red  coats  still; 
But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the 

day  looms  up  before  me, 
When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on  the 

slopes  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

'T  was  a  peaceful  summer's  morning,  when 

the  first  thing  gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the 

river  and  the  shore:  10 

'  Child,'  says  grandma,  '  what 's  the  matter, 

what  is  all  this  noise  and  clatter  ? 
Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come  to 

murder  us  once  more  ?  ' 

Poor  old  soul !  my  sides  were  shaking  in 

the  midst  of  all  my  quaking, 
To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns 

began  to  roar: 
She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the 

slaughter  and  the  pillage, 
When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father  with 

their  bullets  through  his  door. 

Then  I  said,  '  Now,  dear  old  granny,  don't 

you  fret  and  worry  any, 
For   I  '11   soon    come    back   and   tell   you 

whether  this  is  work  or  play; 
There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't 

be  gone  a  minute '  — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.   I  was  gone 

the  livelong  day.  20 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking- 
glass  grimacing; 

prehensive  accounts,  and  has  furnished  material  for 
many  popular  narratives.  (Riverside  Literature  Series. ) 
2  In  December,  1776,  Thomas  Paine,  whose  Common 
Sense  had  so  remarkable  a  popularity  as  the  first 
homely  expression  of  public  opinion  on  Independence, 
began  issuing  a  series  of  tracts  called  The  Crisis, 
eighteen  numbers  of  which  appeared.  The  familiar 
words  quoted  by  the  grandmother  must  often  have 
been  heard  and  used  by  her.  They  begin  the  first  num- 
ber of  The  Crisis :  '  These  are  the  times  that  try 
men's  souls :  the  summer  soldier  and  the  sunshine 
patriot  will,  in  this  crisis,  shrink  from  the  service  of 
his  country ;  but  he  that  stands  it  NOW  deserves  the 
love  and  thanks  of  man  and  woman.'  (Riverside 
Literature  Series.) 


39° 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tumbling 

half-way  to  my  heels; 
God    forbid    your    ever    knowing,     when 

there  's  blood  around  her  flowing, 
How  the   lonely,   helpless   daughter   of  a 

quiet  household  feels  ! 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping;  and  I 
knew  it  was  the  stumping 

Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  that 
wooden  leg  he  wore, 

With  a  knot  of  women  round  him,  —  it  was 
lucky  I  had  found  him, 

So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the  Cor- 
poral marched  before. 

They  were  making  for  the  steeple,  —  the 

old  soldier  and  his  people; 
The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climbed 

the  creaking  stair.  30 

Just  across  the  narrow  river  —  oh,  so  close 

it  made  me  shiver  !  — 
Stood   a   fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but 

yesterday  was  bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it;  well  we  knew 

who  stood  behind  it, 
Though  the  earthwork  hid  them  from  us, 

and  the  stubborn  walls  were  dumb: 
Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking 

wild  upon  each  other, 
And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as 

they  said,  THE  HOUR  HAS  COME  ! 

The  morning  slowly  wasted,  not  a  morsel 

had  we  tasted, 
And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with 

the  cannon's  deafening  thrill, 
When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round  the 

rampart  strode  sedately; 
It   was  PRESCOTT,  one  since  told  me;  he 

commanded  on  the  hill.  40 

Every  woman's  heart  grew  bigger  when  we 
saw  his  manly  figure, 

With  the  banian  buckled  round  it,  standing 
up  so  straight  and  tall; 

Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is  strolling 
out  for  pleasure, 

Through  the  storm  of  shells  and  cannon- 
shot  he  walked  around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for 
the  redcoats'  ranks  were  forming; 


At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were  mov- 
ing to  the  piers; 

How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened, 
as  we  looked  far  down,  and  listened 

To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of  the 
belted  grenadiers  ! 

At   length  the  men   have  started,   with  a 

cheer  (it  seemed  faint-hearted), 
In   their    scarlet   regimentals,   with   their 

knapsacks  on  their  backs,  So 

And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after 

a  sea-fight's  slaughter, 
Round  the  barges  gliding  onward  blushed 

like  blood  along  their  tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and 

again  they  formed  in  order; 
And   the   boats   came    back    for    soldiers, 

came  for  soldiers,  soldiers  still: 
The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women 

faint  and  fasting,  — 
At  last  they  're  moving,  marching,  marching 

proudly  up  the  hill. 

We  can   see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all 

along  the  lines  advancing,  — 
Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley,  —  they 

have  thrown  away  their  shot; 
For  behind  their  earthwork  lying,  all  the 

balls  above  them  flying, 
Our  people  need  not  hurry;  so  they  wait 

and  answer  not.  60 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he  would 

swear  sometimes  and  tipple)  — 
He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the 

old  French  war)  before  — 
Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they 

all  were  hearing,  — 
And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the 

dusty  belfry  floor:  — 

•  Oh  !  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn  King 

George's  shillin's, 
But  ye  '11  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a 

'rebel' falls; 
You   may    bang    the    dirt   and   welcome, 

they  're  as  safe  as  Dan'l  Malcolm. 
Ten    foot    beneath    the    gravestone    that 

you  've  splintered  with  your  balls  ! ' 1 

1  The  following  epitaph  in  still  to  be  read  on  a  tall 
gravestone,  standing  as  yet  undisturbed  among  the 
transplanted  monuments  of  the  dead  in  Copp's  Hill 
Burial  Ground,  one  of  the  three  city 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


391 


In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and 

trepidation 
Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are 

well-nigh  breathless  all;  70 

Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the 

rickety  belfry  railing, 
We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the 

waves  against  a  wall. 

Just  a  glimpse  (the  air  is  clearer),  they  are 

nearer,  —  nearer,  —  nearer, 
When  a  flash  —  a  curling  smoke-wreath  — 

then  a  crash  —  the  steeple  shakes  — 
The  deadly  truce  is  ended;  the  tempest's 

shroud  is  rended; 
Like  a  morning  mist   it   gathered,  like  a 

thundercloud  it  breaks  ! 

Oh  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue- 
black  smoke  blows  over  ! 

The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a 
mower  rakes  his  hay; 

Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a  head- 
long crowd  is  flying 

Like  a  billow  that  has  broken  and  is  shiv- 
ered into  spray.  So 

Then  we  cried,  '  The  troops   are  routed  ! 

they  are  beat  —  it  can't  be  doubted  ! 
God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over  ! '  —  Ah  ! 

the  grim  old  soldier's  smile  ! 
'  Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so  ? '  (we 

could  hardly  speak,  we  shook  so),  — 
'Are    they    beaten?     Are    they    beaten? 

ARE      they     beaten  ?  '  — '  Wait      a 

while.' 

Oh  the  trembling  and  the  terror  !  for  too 

soon  we  saw  our  error: 
They  are  baffled,  not  defeated;    we  have 

driven  them  back  in  vain; 
And  the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round 

the  colors  that  were  tattered, 
Toward  the  sullen,  silent  fortress  turn  their 

belted  breasts  again. 

teries  which  have  been  desecrated  and  ruined  within 
my  own  remembrance :  — 

s  buried  in  a 

rave  10  feet  deep 

Capt.  DANIEL  MALCOLM  Mercht 


Aged  44  years, 

A  true  son  of  Libertv, 

A  Friend  to  the  Publick, 


All  at  once,  as  we  are  gazing,  lo  the  roofs 

of  Charlestown  blazing  ! 
They  have  fired  the  harmless  village ;  in  an 

hour  it  will  be  down  !  90 

The  Lord  in  heaven  confound  them,  rain 

his  fire  and  brimstone  round  them,  — 
The    robbing,   murdering    red-coats,   that 

would  burn  a  peaceful  town  ! 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn;  we 

can  see  each  massive  column 
As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with 

the  slanting  walls  so  steep. 
Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and  in 

noiseless  haste  departed  ? 
Are  they  panic-struck  and  helpless  ?     Are 

they  palsied  or  asleep  ? 

Now  !    the  walls    they  're   almost   under  ! 

scarce  a  rod  the  foes  asunder  ! 
Not  a  firelock  flashed   against   them  !   up 

the  earthwork  they  will  swarm  ! 
But   the  words  have    scarce  been  spoken, 

when  the  ominous  calm  is  broken, 
And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the 

vengeance  of  the  storm  !  100 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted 
backwards  to  the  water, 

Fly  Pigot's  running  heroes  and  the  fright- 
ened braves  of  Howe; 

And  we  shout,  '  At  last  they  're  done  for, 
it's  their  barges  they  have  run  for: 

They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten;  and  the 
battle 's  over  now  ! ' 

And  we    looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on 

the  rough  old  soldier's  features, 
Our  lips  afraid  to  question,  but  he  knew 

what  we  would  ask: 
'Not   sure,'  he  said;   'keep  quiet,  —  once 

more,  I  guess,  they  '11  try  it  — 
Here  's  damnation  to  the  cut-throats  ! '  — 

then  he  handed  me  his  flask, 

Saying,  'Gal,  you're  looking  shaky;  have 

a  drop  of  old  Jamaiky; 
I  'm  afeard  there  '11  be  more  trouble  afore 

the  job  is  done; '  no 

So  I  took  one  scorching  swallow ; .  dreadful 

faint  I  felt  and  hollow, 
Standing  there  from  early  morning  when 

the  firing  was  begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had 
watched  a  calm  clock  dial, 


392 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


As  the  hands  kept  creeping,  creeping,  — 
they  were  creeping  round  to  four, 

When  the  old  man  said,  '  They  're  forming 
with  their  bagonets  fixed  for  storm- 


ing: 
le  deat 


It 's  the  death-grip  that 's  a-coming,  —  they 
will  try  the  works  once  more.' 

With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames 

behind  them  glaring, 
The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array 

they  come; 
Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's 

fold  uncoiling,  — 
Like  the  rattlesnake's   shrill  warning  the 

reverberating  drum  !  120 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall  I  tell 
the  fearful  story, 

How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as 
a  sea  breaks  over  a  deck; 

How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn- 
out  men  retreated, 

With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like 
the  swimmers  from  a  wreck  ? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted ;  as  for  me, 
they  say  I  fainted, 

And  the  wooden  -  legged  old  Corporal 
stumped  with  me  down  the  stair: 

When  I  woke  from  dreams  affrighted  the 
evening  lamps  were  lighted,  — 

On  the  floor  a  youth  was  lying;  his  bleed- 
ing breast  was  bare. 

And  I  heard  through  all  the  flurry,  '  Send 

for  WARREN  !  hurry  !  hurry  ! 
Tell  him  here  's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he  '11 

come  and  dress  his  wound  ! '          130 
Ah,  we  knew   not  till  the  morrow  told  its 

tale  of  death  and  sorrow, 
How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened  on 

the  dark  and  bloody  ground. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his  name  was, 

where  the  place  from  which  he  came 

was, 
Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and 

had  left  him  at  our  door, 
He  could  not  speak  to  tell  us;  but  't  was 

one  of  our  brave  fellows, 
As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which 

the  dying  soldier  wore. 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they 
gathered  round  him  crying,  — 


And  they  said,  '  Oh,  how  they  '11  miss  him !  : 
and,  '  What  will  his  mother  do  ?  ' 

Then,  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a  child's 
that  has  been  dozing, 

He  faintly  murmured,  '  Mother  ! '  —  and 
—  I  saw  his  eyes  were  blue.  140 

'  Why,  grandma,  how  you  're  winking  ! '  Ah, 
my  child,  it  sets  me  thinking 

Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.  Well,  he  some- 
how lived  along; 

So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  I 
nursed  him  like  a  —  mother, 

Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and 
rosy-cheeked,  and  strong. 

And  we  sometimes  walked  together  in  the 
pleasant  summer  weather,  — 

'  Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was  ? ' 
Just  your  own,  my  little  dear,  — 

There  's  his  picture  Copley  painted:  we  be- 
came so  well  acquainted, 

That  —  in  short,  that 's  why  I  'm  grandma, 
and  you  children  all  are  here  ! 

1875. 


HOW  THE   OLD    HORSE  WON 
THE   BET 

DEDICATED  BY  A  CONTRIBUTOR  TO  THE 
COLLEGIAN,  1830,  TO  THE  EDITORS  OF 
THE  HARVARD  ADVOCATE,  1876' 

T  WAS  on  the  famous  trotting-ground, 
The  betting  men  were  gathered  round 
From  far  and  near;  the  '  cracks  '  were  there 
Whose  deeds  the  sporting  prints  declare: 
The  swift  g.  m.,  Old  Hiram's  nag, 
The  fleet  s.  h.,  Dan  Pfeiffer's  brag, 
With  these  a  third  —  and  who  is  he 
That  stands  beside  his  fast  b.  g.  ? 
Budd  Doble,  whose  catarrhal  name 
So  fills  the  nasal  trump  of  fame.  10 

There  too  stood  many  a  noted  steed 
Of  Messenger  and  Morgan  breed; 
Green  horses  also,  not  a  few; 
Unknown  as  yet  what  they  could  do; 
And  all  the  hacks  that  know  so  well 
The  scourgings  of  the  Sunday  swell. 

Blue  are  the  skies  of  opening  day; 
The  bordering  turf  is  green  with  May ; 

1  The  poem  was  read  at  a  dinner  of  the  editors  of  the 
Harvard  Advocate,  a  literary  magazine  published  by 
undergraduates. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


393 


The  sunshine's  golden  gleam  is  thrown 
On  sorrel,  chestnut,  bay,  and  roan;  20 

The  horses  paw  and  prance  and  neigh, 
Fillies  and  colts  like  kittens  play, 
And  dance  and  toss  their  rippled  manes 
Shining  and  soft  as  silken  skeins; 
Wagons  and  gigs  are  ranged  about, 
And  fashion  flaunts  her  gay  turn-out; 
Here       stands  —  each      youthful     Jehu's 

dream  — 

The  jointed  tandem,  ticklish  team  ! 
And  there  in  ampler  breadth  expand 
The  splendors  of  the  four-in-hand;  30 

On  faultless  ties  and  glossy  tiles 
The  lovely  bonnets  beam  their  smiles; 
(The  style  's  the  man,  so  books  avow; 
The  style  's  the  woman,  anyhow) ; 
From  flounces  frothed  with  creamy  lace 
Peeps  out  the  pug-dog's  smutty  face, 
Or  spaniel  rolls  his  liquid  eye, 
Or  stares  the  wiry  pet  of  Skye,  — 

0  woman,  in  your  hours  of  ease 

So  shy  with  us,  so  free  with  these  !  40 

*  Come  on  !     I  '11  bet  you  two  to  one 

1  '11    make    him    do    it ! '      '  Will    you  ? 

Done  ! ' 

What  was  it  who  was  bound  to  do? 

I  did  not  hear  and  can't  tell  you,  — 

Pray  listen  till  my  story  's  through. 

Scarce  noticed,  back  behind  the  rest, 

By  cart  and  wagon  rudely  prest, 

The  parson's  lean  and  bony  bay 

Stood  harnessed  in  his  one-horse  shay  — 

Lent  to  his  sexton  for  the  day  50 

(A  funeral  —  so  the  sexton  said; 

His  mother's  uncle's  wife  was  dead). 

Like  Lazarus  bid  to  Dives'  feast, 
So  looked  the  poor  forlorn  old  beast; 
His  coat  was  rough,  his  tail  was  bare, 
The  gray  was  sprinkled  in  his  hair; 
Sportsmen  and  jockeys  knew  him  not, 
And  yet  they  say  he  once  could  trot 
Among  the  fleetest  of  the  town, 
Till   something   cracked   and    broke    him 

down,  —  60 

The     steed's,    the     statesman's,    common 

lot! 

'  And  are  we  then  so  soon  forgot  ? 
Ah  me  !     I  doubt  if  one  of  you 
Has  ever  heard  the  name  '  Old  Blue,' 
Whose  fame  through  all  this  region  rung 
In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young  ! 


'  Bring  forth  the  horse  ! '   Alas  !  he  showed 
Not  like  the  one  Mazeppa  rode; 
|   Scant-maned,    sharp-backed,    and    shaky- 
kneed, 

The  wreck  of  what  was  once  a  steed,        7o 
Lips  thin,  eyes  hollow,  stiff  in  joints; 
Yet  not  without  his  knowing  points. 
The  sexton  laughing  in  his  sleeve, 
As  if  't  were  all  a  make-believe, 
Led  forth  the  horse,  and  as  he  laughed 
Unhitched  the  breeching  from  a  shaft, 
Unclasped  the  rusty  belt  beneath, 
Drew  forth  the  snaffle  fr«m  his  teeth, 
Slipped  off  his  head-stall,  set  him  free 
From  strap  and  rein,  —  a  sight  to  see  !     80 

So  worn,  so  lean  in  every  limb, 

It  can't  be  they  are  saddling  him  ! 

It  is  !  his  back  the  pig-skin  strides 

And  flaps  his  lank,  rheumatic  sides; 

With  look  of  mingled  scorn  and  mirth 

They  buckle  round  the  saddle-girth; 

With  horsy  wink  and  saucy  toss 

A  youngster  throws  his  leg  across, 

And  so,  his  rider  on  his  back, 

They  lead  him,  limping,  to  the  track,        90 

Far  up  behind  the  starting-point, 

To  limber  out  each  stiffened  joint. 

As  through  the  jeering  crowd  he  past, 
One  pitying  look  Old  Hiram  cast; 
'  Go  it,  ye  cripple,  while  ye  can  !  ' 
Cried  out  unsentimental  Dan; 
'  A  Fast-Day  dinner  for  the  crows  ! ' 
Budd  Doble's  scoffing  shout  arose. 

Slowly,  as  when  the  walking-beam 

First  feels  the  gathering  head  of  steam,  100 

With    warning     cough     and     threatening 

wheeze 

The  stiff  old  charger  crooks  his  knees; 
At  first  with  cautious  step  sedate, 
As  if  he  dragged  a  coach  of  state; 
He  's  not  a  colt;  he  knows  full  well 
That  time  is  weight  and  sure  to  tell; 
No  horse  so  sturdy  but  he  fears 
The  handicap  of  twenty  years. 

As  through  the  throng  on  either  hand 
The  old  horse  nears  the  judges'  stand,     no 
Beneath  his  jockey's  feather-weight 
He  warms  a  little  to  his  gait, 
And  now  and  then  a  step  is  tried 
That  hints  of  something  like  a  stride. 


394 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


*  Go  ! ' — Through  his  ear  the  summons  stung  ! 

As  if  a  battle-trump  had  rung; 

The  slumbering  instincts  long  unstirred 

Start  at  the  old  familiar  word; 

It  thrills  like  flame  through  every  limb,  — 

What  mean  his  twenty  years  to  him  ?      120 

The  savage  blow  his  rider  dealt 

Fell  on  his  hollow  flanks  unfelt; 

The  spur  that  pricked  his  staring  hide 

Unheeded  tore  his  bleeding  side; 

Alike  to  him  are  spur  and  rein,  — 

He  steps  a  five-year-old  again  ! 

Before  the  quarter  pole  was  past, 

Old  Hiram  said,  '  He  's  going  fast.' 

Long  ere  the  quarter  was  a  half, 

The  chuckling  crowd  had  ceased  to  laugh ; 

Tighter  his  frightened  jockey  clung          13! 

As  hi  a  mighty  stride  he  swung, 

The  gravel  flying  in  his  track, 

His  neck  stretched  out,  his  ears  laid  back, 

His  tail  extended  all  the  while 

Behind  him  like  a  rat-tail  file  ! 

Off  went  a  shoe,  —  away  it  spun, 

Shot  like  a  bullet  from  a  gun ; 

The  quaking  jockey  shapes  a  prayer 

From  scraps  of  oaths  he  used  to  swear ;    140 

He  drops  his  whip,  he  drops  his  rein, 

He  clutches  fiercely  for  a  mane; 

He  '11  lose  his  hold  —  he  sways  and  reels  — 

He  '11  slide  beneath  those  trampling  heels  ! 

The  knees  of  many  a  horseman  quake, 

The  flowers  on  many  a  bonnet  shake, 

And  shouts  arise  from  left  and  right, 

« Stick     on  !    Stick    on  !  '     '  Hould   tight  ! 

Hould  tight!' 

'  Cling  round  his  neck  and  don't  let  go  — 
That   pace     can't    hold  —  there  I    steady  ! 

whoa  ! '  150 

But  like  the  sable  steed  that  bore 
The  spectral  lover  of  Lenore, 
His  nostrils  snorting  foam  and  fire, 
No  stretch  his  bony  limbs  can  tire ; 
And  now  the  stand  he  rushes  by. 
And  '  Stop  him  !  —  stop  him  ! '  is  the  cry. 
Stand  back  !  he  's  only  just  begun  — 
He  's  having  out  three  heats  in  one  ! 

'  Don't  rush  in   front !    he  '11   smash   your 

brains; 

But  follow  up  and  grab  the  reins  ! '  160 

Old  Hiram  spoke.   Dan  Pfeiffer  heard, 
And  sprang  impatient  at  the  word; 
Budd  Doble  started  on  his  bay, 
Old  Hiram  followed  on  his  gray, 


And  off  they  spring,  and  rgund  they  go, 
The  fast  ones  doing  '  all  they  know.' 
Look  !  twice  they  follow  at  his  heels, 
As  round  the  circling  course  he  wheels, 
And  whirls  with  him  that  clinging  boy 
Like  Hector  round  the  walls  of  Troy;      170 
Still  on,  and  on,  the  third  time  round  ! 
They  're  tailing  off  !  they  're  losing  ground  ! 
Budd  Doble's  nag  begins  to  fail ! 
Dan  Pfeiffer's  sorrel  whisks  his  tail ! 
And  see  !  in  spite  of  whip  and  shout, 
Old  Hiram's  mare  is  giving  out ! 
Now  for  the  finish  !  at  the  turn, 
The  old  horse  —  all  the  rest  astern  — 
Comes  swinging  in,  with  easy  trot ; 
By  Jove  !  he  's  distanced  all  the  lot !        180 

That  trot  no  mortal  could  explain; 
Some  said,  '  Old  Dutchman  come  again  ! ' 
Some  took  his  time,  —  at  least  they  tried, 
But  what  it  was  could  none  decide; 
One  said  he  could  n't  understand 
What  happened  to  his  second  hand; 
One  said  2.10;  that  could  n't  be  — 
More  like  two  twenty-two  or  three; 
Old  Hiram  settled  it  at  last; 
'  The  time  was  two  —  too  dee-vel-ish  fast ! ' 

The  parson's  horse  had  won  the  bet;         J9i 

It  cost  him  something  of  a  sweat; 

Back  in  the  one-horse  shay  he  went; 

The  parson  wondered  what  it  meant, 

And  murmured,  with  a  mild  surprise 

And  pleasant  twinkle  of  the  eyes, 

'  That  funeral  must  have  been  a  trick, 

Or  corpses  drive  at  double-quick; 

I  should  n't  wonder,  I  declare, 

If  brother  —  Jehu  —  made  the  prayer  ! '  2oo 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say 
About  that  tough  old  trotting  bav, 
Huddup!  Huddup!  G'lang  !  Good  day ! 

Moral  for  which  this  tale  is  told  : 
A  horse  can  trot,  for  all  he  's  old. 

1876. 

FOR    WHITTIER'S    SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY 

DECEMBER   1 7,    1877 

I  BELIEVE  that  the  copies  of  verses  I  've 

spun, 
Like  Scheherezade's  tales,  are  a  thousand 

and  one; 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


395 


You  remember  the  story,  —  those  mornings 

in  bed,  — 
'T  was  the  turn  of  a  copper,  —  a  tale  or  a 

head. 

A  doom  like  Scheherezade's  falls  upon  me 

In  a  mandate  as  stern  as  the  Sultan's 
decree : 

I  'm  a  florist  in  verse,  and  what  would  peo- 
ple say 

If  I  came  to  a  banquet  without  my  bou- 
quet ? 

It  is  trying,  no  doubt,  when  the  company 

knows 
Just  the  look  and.  the  smell  of  each  lily  and 

rose,  10 

The  green  of  each  leaf  in  the  sprigs  that  I 

bring, 
And  the  shape  of  the  bunch  and  the  knot 

of  the  string. 

Yes,  —  '  the  style  is  the  man,'  and  the  nib 
of  one's  pen 

Makes  the  same  mark  at  twenty,  and  three- 
score and  ten; 

It  is  so  in  all  matters,  if  truth  may  be  told ; 

Let  one  look  at  the  cast,  he  can  tell  you 
the  mould. 

How   we  all  know  each  other!  no  use  in 

disguise ; 
Through  the  holes  in  the  mask  comes  the 

flash  of  the  eyes; 
We  can  tell  by  his  —  somewhat  —  each  one 

of  our  tribe, 
As  we  know  the  old  hat  which  we  cannot 

describe.  20 

Though  in  Hebrew,  in  Sanscrit,  in  Choctaw 

you  write, 
Sweet   singer  who  gave  us  the  '  Voices  of 

•Night,' 
Though  in  buskin  or  slipper  your  song  may 

be  shod, 
Or  the  velvety  verse  that  Evangeline  trod, 

We  shall  say,  '  You  can't  cheat  us,  —  we 
know  it  is  you,' 

There  is  one  voice  like  that,  but  there  can- 
not be  two, 

Maestro,  whose  chant  like  the  dulcimer 
rings: 

And  the  woods  will  be  hushed  while  the 
nightingale  sings. 


And  he,  so  serene,  so  majestic,  so  true, 
Whose  temple  hypathral  the  planets  shine 

through,  30 

Let  us  catch  but  five  words  from  that  mys- 

tical pen, 
We  should   know  our  one   sage   from  all 

children  of  men. 

And  he  whose  bright  image  no  distance  can 

dim, 
Through  a  hundred  disguises  we  can't  mis- 

take him, 
Whose  play  is  all  earnest,  whose  wit  is  the 


edge 
a  beet 


(With  a  beetle  behind)  of  a  sham-splitting 
wedge. 

i  Do  you  know  whom  we  send  you,  Hidalgos 

of  Spain  ? 
Do  you  know  your  old  friends  when  you 

see  them  again  ? 

Hosea  was  Saucho  !  you  Dons  of  Madrid, 
But  Sancho  that  wielded  the  lance  of  the 

Cid  !  4o 

And  the  wood-thrush  of  Essex,  —  you  know 

whom  I  mean, 
Whose  song  echoes  round  us  while  he  sits 

unseen, 
Whose  heart-throbs  of  verse  through  our 

memories  thrill 
Like  a  breath  from  the  wood,  like  a  breeze 

from  the  hill, 

So  fervid,  so  simple,  so  loving,  so  pure, 
We  hear  but  one  strain  and  our  verdict  is 

sure,  — 
Thee    cannot   elude   us,  —  no   further   we 

search,  — 
'T  is  Holy  George  Herbert  cut  loose  from 

his  church  ! 

We   think   it  the  voice   of   a  seraph   that 

sings,  — 
Alas  !   we    remember    that    angels    have 

wings,  —  50 

What   story    is   this    of    the    day   of    his 

birth  ? 
Let  him  live  to  a  hundred  !  we  want  him 

on  earth  ! 

One  life  has  been  paid  him  (in  gold)  by 

the  sun; 
One  account  has  been  squared  and  another 

begun; 


396 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


But  he  never  will  die  if  he  lingers  below 
Till  we  've  paid  him  in  love  half  the  bal- 
ance we  owe  ! 

1877.  1877. 

VERITAS1 

TRUTH:  So  the  frontlet's  older  legend  ran, 
On   the   brief  record's   opening  page  dis- 
played; 
Not   yet   those   clear-eyed    scholars   were 

afraid 
Lest  the  fair  fruit  that  wrought  the  woe  of 

man 

By  far  Euphrates  —  where  our  sire  began 
His   search   for   truth,   and,   seeking,  was 

betrayed  — 
Might   work  new   treason  in  their    forest 

shade, 
Doubling   the   curse    that    brought    life's 

shortened  span. 

Nurse  of  the  future,  daughter  of  the  past, 
That  stern  phylactery  best  becomes  thee 

now  : 
Lift    to    the    morning    star    thy    marble 

brow  ! 
Cast   thy   brave   truth   on   every   warring 

Stretch  thy  white  hand  to  that  forbidden 

bough, 
And  let  thine  earliest  symbol  be  thy  last  ! 

1878.  1878. 


THE  SILENT  MELODY 

'  BRING  me  my  broken  harp,'  he  said; 

'  We     both    are    wrecks,  —  but    as    ye 

will,— 
Though  all  its  ringing  tones  have  fled, 

Their  echoes  linger  round  it  still; 
It  had  some  golden  strings,  I  know, 
But  that  was  long  —  how  long  !  —  ago. 

1  The  original  motto  on  the  seal  of  Harvard  College, 
adopted  in  1643.  In  a  letter  enclosing  this  sonnet  and 
another  entitled  '  Christo  et  Eccleaiae,'  to  be  read  at  a 
meeting  of  the  New  York  Harvard  Club,  Holmes  says : 
'  At  the  first  meeting  of  the  Governors  of  the  College 
under  the  Charter  of  1642,  held  in  the  year  1643,  it  was 
"  ordered  that  there  shall  be  a  College  scale  in  forme 
following,"  namely,  a  shield  with  three  open  books 
bearing  the  word  Veritai.  This  motto  was  soon  ex- 
changed for  In  Christi  gloriam;  and  this  again  shortly 
superseded  by  the  one  so  long  used,  Chritlo  et  Ecclesiae.' 

Holmes's  sonnet  was  meant  as  a  plea  that  the  older 
and  broader  motto,  Vertias,  be  restored,  ( See  Morse's 
lAfe  of  Holmes,  vol.  i,  pp.  236-240.  This  has  now  been 
done,  hut  without  displacing  the  other  motto,  Christo 
et  Ecclesiae. 


'  I  cannot  see  its  tarnished  gold, 
I  cannot  hear  its  vanished  tone, 

Scarce  can  my  trembling  fingers  hold 
The  pillared  frame  so  long  their  own;  ic 

We  both  are  wrecks,  —  awhile  ago 

It  had  some  silver  strings,  I  know, 

'  But  on  them  Time  too  long  has  played 
The  solemn  strain  that  knows  no  change, 

And  where  of  old  my  fingers  strayed 
The    chords    they    find    are    new    and 
strange,  — 

Yes  !  iron  strings,  —  I  know,  —  I  know,  — 

We  both  are  wrecks  of  long  ago. 

4  We     both     are    wrecks,  —  a     shattered 

pair,  — 

Strange    to    ourselves    in     time's     dis- 
guise  ...  20 

What  say  ye  to  the  lovesick  air 

That    brought  the  tears   from  Marian's 

eyes  ? 

Ay  !  trust  me,  —  under  breasts  of  snow 
Hearts  could  be  melted  long  ago  ! 

'  Or  will  ye  hear  the  storm-song's  crash 

That  from  his  dreams  the  soldier  woke, 
And  bade  him  face  the  lightning  flash 
When      battle's      cloud       in      thunder 

broke  ?  .  .  . 
Wrecks,  —  nought  but  wrecks  !  —  the  time 

was  when 
We  two  were  worth  a  thousand  men  ! '     30 

And  so  the  broken  harp  they  bring 

With    pitying    smiles   that   none   could 
blame; 

Alas  !  there  's  not  a  single  string 

Of  all  that  filled  the  tarnished  frame  ! 

But  see  !  like  children  overjoyed, 

His  fingers  rambling  through  the  void  ! 

'  I     clasp    thee !     Ay  .  .  .  mine     ancient 

lyre   .  .  . 
Nay,  guide  my  wandering  fingers.    .  .    . 

There  ! 
They  love  to  dally  with  the  wire 

As  Isaac  played  with  Esau's  hair.  ...  40 
Hush  !  ye  shall  hear  the  famous  tune 
That  Marian  called  the  Breath  of  June  ! ' 

And  so  they  softly  gather  round : 
Rapt  in  his  tuneful  trance  he  seems: 

His  fingers  move :  but  not  a  sound  ! 
A  silence  like  the  song  of  dreams.  .  .  . 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


397 


'  There  !  ye  have  heard  the  air,'  he  cries, 
'  That   brought   the   tears   from  Marian's 
eyes  !  ' 

Ah,  smile  not  at  his  fond  conceit, 

Nor  deem  his  fancy  wrought  in  vain;     50 

To  him  the  unreal  sounds  are  sweet,  — 
No  discord  mars  the  silent  strain 

Scored  on  life's  latest,  starlit  page  — 

The  voiceless  melody  of  age. 

Sweet  are  the  lips  of  all  that  sing, 

When  Nature's  music  breathes  unsought, 

But  never  yet  could  voice  or  string 
So  truly  shape  our  tenderest  thought 

As  when  by  life's  decaying  fire 

Our  fingers  sweep  the  stringless  lyre  !       60 

1878. 

THE    IRON    GATE1 

WHERE   is  this   patriarch  you  are  kindly 

greeting  ? 

Not  unfamiliar  to  my  ear  his  name, 
Nor  yet  unknown  to  many  a  joyous  meet- 
ing 
In  days  long  vanished,  —  is  he  still  the 


Or   changed  by  years,   forgotten  and  for- 
getting, 
Dull-eared,  dim-sighted,  slow  of   speech 

and  thought, 

Still  o'er  the  sad,  degenerate  present  fret- 
ting, 

Where  all  goes  wrong,  and  nothing  as  it 
ought  ? 

Old  age,  the  graybeard  !     Well,  indeed,  I 

know  him,  — 

Shrunk,  tottering,  bent,  of  aches  and  ills 
the  prey;  ro 

In  sermon,  story,  fable,  picture,  poem, 
Oft   have  I  met  him  from  my  earliest 
day: 

In  my  old  ^Esop,  toiling  with  his  bundle, — 
His    load    of    sticks,  —  politely    asking 

Death, 
Who  comes  when  called  for,  —  would  he 

lug  or  trundle 

His  fagot  for  him  ?  —  he  was  scant  of 
breath. 

1  Read  by  Holmes  at  the  celebration  of  bis  seventieth 
birthday. 


And  sad  '  Ecclesiastes,  or  the  Preacher,'  — 
Has  he  not  stamped  the  image  on  my 

soul, 
In   that  last  chapter,  where  the  worn-out 

Teacher 

Sighs  o'er  the  loosened  cord,  the  broken 
bowl? 

Yes,  long,  indeed,  I  've  known  him  at  a  dis- 
tance, 
And  now  my  lifted  door-latch  shows  him 

here; 

I  take  his   shrivelled  hand  without  resist- 
ance, 

And  find  him   smiling  as  his  step  draws 
near. 

What  though  of  gilded  baubles  he  bereaves 

us, 
Dear  to  the  heart  of  youth,  to  manhood's 

prime ; 
Think  of  the  calm  he  brings,  the  wealth  he 

leaves  us, 
The  hoarded  spoils,  the  legacies  of  time  ! 

Altars  once  flaming,  still  with  incense  fra- 
grant, 

Passion's  uneasy  nurslings  rocked  asleep, 
Hope's  anchor  faster,  wild  desire  less  va- 
grant, 3i 
Life's    flow    less    noisy,  but  the  stream 
how  deep  ! 

Still   as    the   silver   cord   gets    worn   and 

slender, 

Its  lightened  task-work  tugs  with  lessen- 
ing strain, 
Hands  get  more  helpful,  voices,  grown  more 

tender, 

Soothe    with    their    softened   tones  the 
slumberous  brain. 

Youth  longs  and  manhood  strives,  but  age 

remembers, 

Sits  by  the  raked-up  ashes  of  the  past, 
Spreads  its  thin  hands  above  the  whitening 

embers 

That   warm   its   creeping  life-blood  till 
the  last.  4o 

Dear  to  its  heart  is  every  loving  token 
That  comes  unbidden  ere  its  pulse  grows 
cold, 

Ere  the  last  lingering  ties  of  life  are  broken, 
Its  labors  ended  and  its  story  told. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Ah,  while  around  us  rosy  youth  rejoices, 
For  us  the  sorrow-laden  breezes  sigh, 
And   through   the    chorus    of    its    jocund 

voices 

Throbs  the  sharp  note  of  misery's  hope- 
less cry. 

As  on  the  gauzy  wings  of  fancy  flying 
From  some  far  orb  I  track  our  watery 
sphere,  50 

Home  of  the  struggling,  suffering,  doubt- 
ing, dying, 

The  silvered  globule  seems  a  glistening 
tear. 

But  Nature  lends  her  mirror  of  illusion 
To  win  from  saddening  scenes  our  age- 
dimmed  eyes, 

And  misty  day-dreams  blend  in  sweet  con- 
fusion 

The  wintry  landscape  and  the  summer 
skies. 

So  when  the  iron  portal  shuts  behind  us, 
And    life    forgets    us   in   its   noise  and 

whirl, 
Visions  that  shunned   the  glaring  noonday 

find  us, 

And  glimmering     starlight     shows   the 
gates  of  pearl.  60 

I  come  not  here  your  morning  hour  to  sad- 
den, 

A  limping  pilgrim,  leaning  on  his  staff,  — 
I,  who  have  never  deemed  it  sin  to  glad- 
den 

This  vale  of  sorrows  with  a  wholesome 
laugh. 

If  word     of    mine    another's   gloom   has 

brightened, 
Through  my  dumb   lips  the  heaven-sent 

message  came; 

If  hand  of  mine  another's  task  has  light- 
ened, 

It  felt  the  guidance  that  it  dares  not 
claim. 

But,  O  my  gentle  sisters,  O  my  brothers, 
These   thick-sown     snow-flakes   hint   of 
toil's  release;  7o 

These  feebler  pulses  bid  me  leave  to  oth- 
ers 

The  tasks  once  welcome;  evening  asks 
for  peace. 


Time   claims   his   tribute;  silence    now  is 

golden ; 
Let   me   not  vex  the  too  long  suffering 

lyre; 

Though  to  your  love  untiring  still  beholden, 
The  curfew  tells  me  — cover  up  the  ftre. 

And  now  with  grateful  smile  and  accents 

cheerful, 
And    warmer   heart  than  look  or  word 

can  tell, 
In  simplest  phrase  — these  traitorous  eyes 

are  tearful  — 

Thanks,   Brothers,    Sisters,  —  Children, 

—  and  farewell !  80 

1879.  187S). 


THE    SHADOWS1 

'  How  many  have  gone  ?  '  was  the  question 

of  old 
Ere  Time  our  bright  ring  of  its  jewels 

bereft; 

Alas  !  for  too  often  the  death-bell  has  tolled, 
And  the  question  we  ask  is,  '  How  many 
are  left  ? ' 

Bright  sparkled  the  wine ;  there  were  fifty 

that  quaffed; 
For  a  decade  had  slipped  and  had  taken 

but  three. 
How  they   frolicked  and   sung,  how   they 

shouted  and  laughed, 
Like  a  school   full   of   boys  from  their 
benches  set  free  ! 

There  were  speeches  and  toasts,  there  were 

stories  and  rhymes, 

The  hall  shook  its  sides  with  their  mer- 
riment's noise;  10 
As  they  talked  and  lived  over  the  college- 
day  times,  — 

No  wonder  they  kept  their  old  name  of 
<  The  Boys '  ! 

The  seasons  moved  on  in  their  rhythmical 

flow 
With  mornings  like  maidens  that  pouted 

or  smiled, 
With  the  bud  and  the  leaf  and  the  fruit 

and  the  snow, 

And  the  year-books  of  Time  in  his  al- 
coves were  piled. 

1  For  the  class  reunion,  1880. 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


399 


There  were  forty  that  gathered  where  fifty 

had  met; 
Some  locks  had  got  silvered,  some  lives 

had  grown  sere, 
But  the  laugh  of  the  laughers  was  lusty  as 

yet, 

And  the  song  of  the  singers  rose  ringing 
and  clear.  20 

Still  flitted  the  years;  there  were  thirty  that 

came; 

'  The  Boys  '  they  were  still,  and  they  an- 
swered their  call; 
There  were  foreheads  of  care,  but  the  smiles 

were  the  same, 

And  the  chorus  rang  loud  through  the 
garlanded  hall. 

The  hour-hand  moved  on,  and  they  gath- 
ered again; 
There   were   twenty   that   joined   in  the 

hvnm  that  was  sung; 
But  ah  !  for  our  song-bird   we  listened  in 

vain,  — 

The  crystalline  tones  like  a  seraph's  that 
rung  ! 

How   narrow   the  circle  that  holds  us  to- 
night ! 

Plow  manv  the  loved  ones  that  greet  us 

no  more,  3o 

As  we  meet  like  the  stragglers  that  come 

from  the  fight, 

Like  the  mariners  flung  from   a  wreck 
on  the  shore  ! 

We  look  through  the  twilight  for  those  we 

have  lost; 
The  stream   rolls   between  us,  and   yet 

they  seem  near; 
Already  outnumbered  by  those  who  have 

crossed, 

Our  band  is  transplanted,  its  home  is  not 
here  ! 

They    smile    on    us    still  —  is    it    only    a 

dream  ?  — 
While  fondly  or  proudly  their  names  we 

recall; 

They  beckon  —  they  come  —  they  are  cross- 
ing the  stream  — 

Lo !  the  Shadows  !  the  Shadows  !  room 
—  room  for  them  all  !  40 


AT   THE   SATURDAY   CLUB  » 

THIS  is  our  place  of  meeting;  opposite 
That  towered  and  pillared  building:   look 

at  it; 

King's  Chapel  in  the  Second  George's  day, 
Rebellion  stole  its  regal  name  away,  — 
Stone  Chapel  sounded  better;  but  at  last 
The  poisoned  name  of  our  provincial  past 
Had  lost  its  ancient  venom ;  then  once  more 
Stone  Chapel  was  King's  Chapel  as  before. 
(So  let  rechristened  North  Street,  when  it 

can, 
Bring  back  the  days  of  Marlborough  and 

Queen  Anne  !)  J0 

1  About  the  time  when  these  papers  {The  Autocrat] 
were  published,  the  Saturday  Club  was  fouuded,  or, 
rather,  found  itself  in  existence,  without  any  organiza- 
tion, almost  without  parentage.  It  was  natural  enough 
that  such  men  as  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Agassiz,  Peirce. 
with  Hawthorne,  Motley,  Sumner,  when  within  reacn, 
and  others  who  would  be  good  company  for  then., 
should  meet  and  dine  together  once  in  a  while,  as  they 
did,  in  point  of  fact,  every  month,  and  as  some  who  are 
still  living,  with  other  and  newer  members,  still  meet 
and  dine.  If  some  of  them  had  not  admired  each  other 
they  would  have  been  exceptions  in  the  world  of  letters 
and  science.  [Holmes  here  alludes  to  the  fact  that  the 
profane  sometimes  called  thin  club  '  The  Mutual  Ad- 
miration Society.'  It  is  related  that  when  a  book  by 
one  of  its  members  was  reviewed  by  another  member 
in  the  'North  American  Review,'  some  outsider  wrote 
below  the  heading  of  the  article,  '  Insured  in  the  Mu- 
tual.'] The  club  deserves  being  remembered  for  hav- 
ing no  constitution  or  by-laws,  for  making  no  speeches, 
reading  no  papers,  observing  no  ceremonies,  coming 
and  going  at  will  without  remark,  and  acting  out, 
though  it  did  not  proclaim  the  motto,  '  Shall  I  not  take 
mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ?  '  (HOLMES.) 

Outside  the  sacred  penetralia  which  were  shut  within 
his  own  front  door,  nothing  else  in  Dr.  Holmes's  life 
gave  him  so  much  pleasure  as  did  this  Club.  He  loved 
it ;  he  hugged  the  thought  of  it.  When  he  was  writing 
to  Lowell  and  Motley  in  Europe,  he  seemed  to  think 
that  merely  to  name  '  The  Club  '  was  enough  to  give  a 
genial  flavor  to  his  page.  He  would  tell  who  were  pre- 
sent at  the  latest  meeting,  and  where  they  sat.  He 
would  recur  to  those  who  used  to  come,  and  mention 
their  habitual  seats,  —  matters  which  his  correspond- 
ents already  knew  perfectly  well.  But  the  names  were 
sweet  things  in  his  mouth  ;  and,  in  fact,  he  was  doing 
one  of  the  deepest  acts  of  intimacy  in  thus  touching  the 
chord  of  the  dearest  reminiscence  which  their  memo- 
ries held  in  common.  By  this  he  seemed  sure  that  he 
would  make  his  letter  welcome,  however  little  else  of 
news  or  interest  it  might  convey.  In  the  later  days 
there  came  to  be  something  pathetic  about  his  attach- 
ment to  that  which  still  had  existence  and  yet  for  him 
was  almost  all  a  memory.  In  1883  he  wrote  to  Lowell : 
'  I  go  to  the  Saturday  Club  quite  regularly,  but  the  com- 
pany is  more  of  ghosts  than  of  flesh  and  blood  for  me. 
I  carry  a  stranger  there  now  and  then,  introduce  him 
to  the  members  who  happen  to  be  there,  and  then  say  : 
There  at  that  end  used  to  sit  Agassiz  ;  here  at  this 
end  Longfellow ;  Emerson  used  to  be  there,  and 
Lowell  often  next  him  ;  on  such  an  occasion  Haw- 
thorne was  with  us,  at  another  time  Motley,  and  Sum- 
ner. and  smaller  constellations,  —  nebulae  if  you  will, 
but  luminous  more  or  less  in  the  provincial  firmament.' 


(Morse's  Life  of  Holmes,  vol.  i,  pp.  243,  244.) 

Ts '  Agassiz,'  and  Holmes's  Life  ofJSn 


Cf .  Lowell's 


400 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Next  the  old  church  your  wandering  eye 

will  meet  — 

A  granite  pile  that  stares  upon  the  street  — 
Our  civic  temple;  slanderous  tongues  have 

said 
Its  shape  was  modelled  from  St.  Botolph's 

head, 

Lofty,  but  narrow;  jealous  passers-by 
Say  Boston  always  held  her  head  too  high. 
Turn  half-way  round,  and  let  your  look 

survey 
The  white  facade  that  gleams  across  the 

way, — 
The    many-windowed    building,    tall    and 

wide, 
The   palace-inn  that    shows   its   northern 

side  20 

In   grateful    shadow  when    the    sunbeams 

beat 
The   granite  wall   in   summer's   scorching 

heat. 
This  is  the  place;  whether   its   name  you 

spell 

Tavern,  or  caravansera,  or  hotel. 
Would  I  could  steal  its  echoes  !  you  should 

find 
Such  store  of  vanished  pleasures  brought 

to  mind: 
Such  feasts  !  the  laughs  of  many  a  jocund 

hour 
That  shook  the  mortar  from  King  George's 

tower; 

Such  guests  !    What  famous  names  its  re- 
cord boasts, 
Whose    owners   wander    in    the    mob    of 

ghosts !  30 

Such  stories  !   Every  beam  and   plank   is 

filled 

With  juicy  wit  the  joyous  talkers  spilled, 
Ready  to  ooze,  as  once  the  mountain  pine 
The  floors  are  laid  with  oozed  its  turpen- 
tine ! 

A  month  had  flitted  since  The  Club  had 

met; 

The  day  came  round ;  I  found  the  table  set, 
The  waiters   lounging   round   the   marble 

stairs, 

Empty  as  yet  the  double  row  of  chairs. 
I  was  a  full  half  hour  before  the  rest, 
Alone,  the  banquet-chamber's  single  guest. 
So  from  the  table's  side  a  chair  I  took,     41 
And  having  neither  company  nor  book 
To  keep  me  waking,  by  degrees  there  crept 
A  torpor  over  me,  —  in  short,  I  slept. 


Loosed  from  its  chain,  along  the  wreck- 

strown  track 
Of  the  dead  years  my  soul  goes  travelling 

back; 
My  ghosts  take  on  their  robes  of  flesh;  it 


Dreaming  is  life;   nay,  life  less  life  than 

dreams, 

So  real  are  the  shapes  that  meet  my  eyes. 
They  bring  no  sense  of   wonder,  no  sur- 
prise, 5o 
No  hint  of  other  than  an  earth-born  source ; 
All    seems   plain   daylight,  everything   of 

course. 
How  dim  the  colors  are,  how  poor  and 

faint 
This  palette  of  weak  words  with  which  I 

paint ! 

Here  sit  my  friends;  if  I  could  fix  them  so 
As  tc  my  eyes  they  seem,  my  page  would 

glow 
Like   a   queen's    missal,  warm    as   if   the 

brush 

Of  Titian  or  Velasquez  brought  the  flush 
Of  life  into  their  features.  Ay  de  mi ! 
If   syllables   were    pigments,   you    should 

see  60 

Such  breathing  portraitures  as  never  man 
Found  in  the  Pitti  or  the  Vatican. 

Here  sits  our  POET,  Laureate,  if  you  will. 
Long  has  he  worn  the  wreath,  and  wears  it 

still. 
Dead  ?  Nay,  not  so;  and  yet  they  say  his 

bust 

Looks  down  on  marbles  covering  royal  dust, 
Kings   by  the  Grace  of  God,  or  Nature's 


Dead !  No  !  Alive  !  I  see  him  in  his  place, 
Full-featured,  with  the  bloom  that  heaven 

denies 
Her  children,  pinched  by  cold  New  England 

skies,  7° 

Too  often,  while  the  nursery's  happier  few 
Win  from  a  summer  cloud  its  roseate  hue. 
Kind,  soft-voiced,  gentle,  in  his  eye  there 

shines 

The  ray  serene  that  filled  Evangeline's. 
Modest  he  seems,  not   shy;   content  to 

wait 

Amid  the  noisy  clamor  of  debate 
The  looked-for  moment  when  a  peaceful 

word 
Smooths  the  rough  ripples  louder  tongues 

have  stirred. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


401 


In  every  tone  I  mark  his  tender  grace 
And  all  his  poems  hinted  in  his  face ;         80 
What   tranquil   joy  his  friendly  presence 

gives  ! 
How  could  I  think  him  dead  ?   He  lives  ! 

He  lives ! 

There,  at  the  table's  further  end  I  see 
In  his  old  place  our  Poet's  vis-a-vis, 
The  great  PROFESSOR,  strong,  broad-shoul- 
dered, square, 

In  life's  rich  noontide,  joyous,  debonair. 
His  social  hour  no  leaden  care  alloys, 
His  laugh  rings  loud  and   mirthful   as   a 

boy's,  — 

That  lusty  laugh  the  Puritan  forgot,  — 
What   ear   has   heard   it    and   remembers 
not?  90 

How  often,  halting  at  some  wide  crevasse 
Amid  the  windings  of  his  Alpine  pass, 
High   up   the   cliffs,  the    climbing   moun- 
taineer, 

Listening  the  far-off  avalanche  to  hear, 
Silent,  and  leaning  on  his  steel-shod  staff, 
Has  heard  that  cheery  voice,  that  ringing 

laugh, 

From  the  rude  cabin  whose  nomadic  walls 

Creep  with  the  moving  glacier  as  it  crawls  ! 

How  does  vast  Nature  lead  her  living 

train 

In  ordered  sequence  through  that  spacious 
brain,  100 

As  in  the  primal  hour  when  Adam  named 
The  new-born  tribes  that  young  creation 

claimed  !  — 
How  will  her  realm  be  darkened,  losing 

thee, 
Her  darling,  whom  we  call  our  AGASSIZ  ! 

But  who  is  he  whose  massive  frame  belies 
The  maiden  shyness  of  his  downcast  eyes  ? 
Who  broods  in  silence  till,  by  questions 

pressed, 
Some  answer  struggles  from  his  laboring 

breast  ? 

An  artist  Nature  meant  to  dwell  apart,    109 
Locked  in  his  studio  with  a  human  heart, 
Tracking  its  caverned  passions  to  their  lair, 
And  all  its  throbbing  mysteries  laying  bare. 
Count  it  no  marvel  that  he  broods  alone 
Over  the  heart  he  studies,  —  't  is  his  own; 
So  in  his  page,  whatever  shape  it  wear, 
The  Essex  wizard's  shadowed  self  is  there, — 
The  great  ROMANCER,  hid  beneath  his  veil 
Like  the  stern  preacher  of  his  sombre  tale; 


Virile  in  strength,  yet  bashful  as  a  girl, 
Prouder  than  Hester,  sensitive  as  Pearl.  i\ 

From  his   mild   throng   of   worshippers 

released, 

Our  Concord  Delphi  sends  its  chosen  priest, 
Prophet  or  poet,  mystic,  sage,  or  seer, 
By  every  title  always  welcome  here. 
Why  that  ethereal  spirit's  frame  describe  ? 
You  know  the  race-marks  of  the  Brahmin 

tribe,  — 

The  spare,  slight  form,  the  sloping  shoul- 
der's droop, 
The   calm,    scholastic    mien,   the     clerkly 

stoop, 
The  lines  of  thought  the  sharpened  features 

wear, 
Carved  by  the  edge  of  keen  New  England 

air.  130 

List  !  for  he  speaks  !  As  when  a  king 

would  choose 

The  jewels  for  his  bride,  he  might  refuse 
This  diamond  for  its  flaw,  —  find  that  less 

bright 
Than  those,  its  fellows,  and  a  pearl  less 

white 

Than  fits  her  snowy  neck,  and  yet  at  last, 
The  fairest  gems  are  chosen,  and  made  fast 
In  golden  fetters ;  so,  with  light  delays 
He  seeks  the  fittest  word  to  fill  his  phrase; 
Nor  vain  nor  idle  his  fastidious  quest, 
j  His  chosen  word  is  sure  to  prove  the  best. 
Where  in  the  realm  of  thought,  whose 

air  is  song,  141 

1  Does  he,  the  Buddha  of  the  West,  belong  ? 
He  seems  a  winged  Franklin,  sweetly  wise, 
Born  to  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  skies; 
|  And  which  the  nobler  calling,  —  if  't  is  fair 
Terrestrial  with  celestial  to  compare,  — 
To  guide  the  storm-cloud's  elemental  flame, 
Or  walk  the  chambers  whence  the  light- 
ning came, 

Amidst  the  sources  of  its  subtile  fire, 
And  steal  their  effluence  for  his  lips  and 

lyre  ?  ,5o 

If  lost  at  times  in  vague  aerial  flights, 
None  treads  with  firmer  footstep  when  he 

lights; 

A  soaring  nature,  ballasted  with  sense, 
Wisdom  without  her  wrinkles  or  pretence, 
In  every  Bible  he  has  faith  to  read, 
And  every  altar  helps  to  shape  his  creed. 
Ask  you  what  name  this  prisoned  spirit  bears 
While  with  ourselves  this  fleeting  breath  it 

158 


402 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Till  angels  greet  him  with  a  sweeter  one 
In  heaven,  on  earth  we  call  him  EMERSON. 

I  start;  I  wake;  the  vision  is  withdrawn; 

Its  figures  fading  like  the  stars  at  dawn; 

Crossed  from  the  roll  of  life  their  cher- 
ished names, 

And   memory's    pictures    fading   in   their 
frames; 

Yet   life    is   lovelier   for    these    transient 
gleams 

Of   buried   friendships;    blest    is   he   who 
dreams  ! 

1884. 

THE    GIRDLE   OF   FRIEiNDSHIP  1 

SHE  gathered  at  her  slender  waist 
The  beauteous  robe  she  wore; 

Its  folds  a  golden  belt  embraced, 
One  rose-hued  gem  it  bore. 

The  girdle  shrank;  its  lessening  round 

Still  kept  the  shining  gem, 
But  now  her  flowing  locks  it  bound, 

A  lustrous  diadem. 

And  narrower  still  the  circlet  grew; 

Behold  !  a  glittering  band, 
Its  roseate  diamond  set  anew, 

Her  neck's  white  column  spanned. 

Suns  rise  and  set;  the  straining  clasp 

The  shortened  links  resist, 
Yet  flashes  in  a  bracelet's  grasp 

The  diamond,  on  her  wrist. 

At  length,  the  round  of  changes  past 
The  thieving  years  could  bring, 

The  jewel,  glittering  to  the  last, 
Still  sparkles  in  a  ring. 

So,  link  by  link,  our  friendships  part, 

So  loosen,  break,  and  fall, 
A  narrowing  zone;  the  loving  heart 
Lives  changeless  through  them  all. 
18S4.  1884. 


TO  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  2 

THIS  is  your  month,  the  month  of  '  perfect 

days,' 
Birds  in  full  song  and  blossoms  all  ablaze. 

1  For  the  class  reunion,  1884. 

2  On  hia  return  from  England. 


Nature    herself     your     earliest    welcome 

breathes, 
Spreads    every    leaflet,    every   bower    in- 

wreathes ; 

Carpets  her  paths  for  your  returning  feet, 
Puts  forth  her  best  your  coming  steps  to 

greet; 
And  Heaven  must  surely  find  the  earth  in 

tune 
When   Home,    sweet    Home,  exhales   the 

breath  of  June. 

These  blessed  days  are  waning  all  too  fast, 
And  June's   bright  visions   mingling  with 

the  past;  10 

Lilacs  have  bloomed  and  faded,  and  the  rose 
Has  dropped  its  petals,  but  the  clover  blows, 
And  fills  its  slender  tubes  with  honeyed 

sweets; 
The   fields   are   pearled   with    milk-white 

margarites ; 

The  dandelion,  which  you  sang  of  old, 
Has  lost  its  pride  of  place,  its  crown  of  gold, 
But    still     displays   its    feathery-mantled 

globe, 
Which   children's     breath    or     wandering 

winds  unrobe. 
These   were    your   humble    friends;    your 

opened  eyes 
Nature  had  trained  her  common  gifts  to 

prize;  20 

Not  Cam  nor  Isis  taught  you  to  despise 
Charles,  with  his  muddy  margin  and  the 

harsh, 

Plebeian  grasses  of  the  reeking  marsh. 
New   England's  home-bred   scholar,  well 

you  knew 
Her  soil,  her  speech,  her  people,  through 

and  through, 
And  loved  them  ever   with  the  love  that 

holds 
All  sweet,  fond  memories  in  its  fragrant 

folds. 
Though  far  and  wide    your  winged  words 

have  flown, 

Your  daily  presence  kept  you  all  our  own, 
Till,   with   a  sorrowing   sigh,   a    thrill   of 

pride,  30 

We  heard  your  summons,  and  you  left  our 

side 
For  larger  duties  and  for  tasks  untried. 

How  pleased  the  Spaniards  for  a  while  to 

claim 
This  frank  Hidalgo  with  the  liquid  name, 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


403 


Who  stored  their  classics  on  his  crowded 

shelves 
And    loved   their    Calderon   as  they  did 

themselves  ! 
Before   his   eyes   what  changing   pageants 


The    bridal   feast    how   near   the  funeral 

mass  ! 
The  death-stroke    falls,  —  the    Misereres 

wail; 
The  joy  -  bells    ring,  —  the    tear  -  stained 

cheeks  unveil,  4o 

While,  as  the  playwright  shifts  his  pictured 

scene, 
The    royal    mourner    crowns   his  second 

queen. 

From  Spain  to  Britain  is  a  goodly  stride,  — 
Madrid  and  London  long-stretched  leagues 

divide. 

What  if  I  send  him,  •  Uncle  S.,  says  he,' 
To  my  good  cousin  whom  he  calls  '  J.  B.'  ? 
A  nation's  servants  go  where  they  are 

sent,  — 

He  heard  his  Uncle's  orders,  and  he  went. 
By  what   enchantments,   what    alluring 

arts, 
Our   truthful   James  led    captive   British 

hearts,  —  5o 

Whether  his  shrewdness  made  their  states- 
men halt, 

Or  if  his  learning  found  their  Dons  at  fault, 
Or  if  his  virtue  was  a  strange  surprise, 
Or  if  his  wit  flung  star-dust  in  their  eyes,  — 
Like  honest  Yankees  we  can  simply  guess ; 
But  that  he  did  it  all  must  needs  confess. 
England  .  herself    without    a    blush    may 

claim 
Her    only   conqueror    since    the    Norman 

came. 
Eight  years  an  exile  !     What   a  weary 

while 
Since  first  our   herald  sought  the  mother 

isle  !  60 

His  snow-white  flag  no  churlish  wrong  has 

soiled,  — 
He  left  unchallenged,  he  returns  unspoiled. 

Here  let  us  keep   him,    here   he  saw  the 

light,  — 

His  genius,  wisdom,  wit,  are  ours  by  right; 
And  if  we  lose  him  our  lament  will  be 
We  have  '  five  hundred '  —  not  '  as  good 

as  he.' 
1S85.  (1888.) 


THE   LYRE   OF   ANACREON  1 

THE  minstrel  of  the  classic  lay 

Of  love  and  wine  who  sings 
Still  found  the  fingers  run  astray 

That  touched  the  rebel  strings. 

Of  Cadmus  he  would  fain  have  sung, 

Of  Atreus  and  his  line; 
But  all  the  jocund  echoes  rung 

With  songs  of  love  and  wine. 

Ah,  brothers  !  I  would  fain  have  caught 
Some  fresher  fancy's  gleam;  j 

My  truant  accents  find,  unsought, 
The  old  familiar  theme. 

Love,  Love  !  but  not  the  sportive  child 
With  shaft  and  twanging  bow, 

Whose  random  arrows  drove  us  wild 
Some  threescore  years  ago; 

Not  Eros,  with  his  joyous  laugh, 

The  urchin  blind  and  bare, 
But  Love,  with  spectacles  and  staff, 

And  scanty,  silvered  hair.  3 

Our  heads  with  frosted  locks  are  white, 
Our  roofs  are  thatched  with  snow, 

But  red,  in  chilling  winter's  spite, 
Our  hearts  and  hearthstones  glow. 

Our  old  acquaintance,  Time,  drops  in, 

And  while  the  running  sands 
Their  golden  thread  unheeded  spin, 

He  warms  his  frozen  hands. 

Stay,  winged  hours,  too  swift,  too  sweet, 
And  waft  this  message  o'er  3 

To  all  we  miss,  from  all  we  meet 
On  life's  fast-crumbling  shore  : 

Say  that,  to  old  affection  true, 

We  hug  the  narrowing  chain 
That  binds  our  hearts,  —  alas,  how  few 

The  links  that  yet  remain  ! 

The  fatal  touch  awaits  them  all 

That  turns  the  rocks  to  dust; 
From  year  to  year  they  break  and  fall,  — 

They  break,  but  never  rust.  4 


Sa 


y  if  one  note  of  happier  strain 
This  worn-out  harp  afford,  — 


For  the  class  reunion,  1885. 


404 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


One  throb  that  trembles,  not  in  vain,  — 
Their  memory  lent  its  chord. 

Say  that  when  Fancy  closed  her  wings 
And  Passion  quenched  his  fire, 

Love,  Love,  still  echoed  from  the  strings 
As  from  Anacreon's  lyre  ! 

1885.  (1888.) 


AFTER   THE   CURFEW  1 

THE  Play  is  over.     While  the  light 
Yet  lingers  in  the  darkening  hall, 

I  come  to  say  a  last  Good-night 
Before  the  final  Exeunt  all. 

We  gathered  once,  a  joyous  throng: 
The  jovial  toasts  went  gayly  round; 

With  jest,  and  laugh,  and  shout,  and  song, 
We  made  the  floors  and  walls  resound. 

We  come  with  feeble  steps  and  slow, 

A  little  band  of  four  or  five,  10 

Left  from  the  wrecks  of  long  ago, 
Still  pleased  to  find  ourselves  alive. 

Alive  !     How  living,  too,  are  they 
Whose  memories  it  is  ours  to  share  ! 

Spread  the  long  table's  full  array,  — 
There  sits  a  ghost  in  every  chair  ! 

One  breathing  form  no.more,  alas  ! 

Amid  our  slender  group  we  see  ;  a 
With  him  we  still  remained  '  The  Class,'  — 

Without  his  presence  what  are  we  ?       20 

The  hand  we  ever  loved  to  clasp,  — 

That  tireless  hand  which  knew  no  rest,  — 

Loosed  from  affection's  clinging  grasp, 
Lies  nerveless  on  the  peaceful  breast. 

1  The  last  of  the  poems  written  for  the  class  of  '29. 
Seethe  letter  from  Samuel  May  to  F.  J.  Garrison, 
quoted  in  Morse's  Life  of  Holmes,  vol.  i,  p.  78  :  '  "  After 
the  Curfew  "  was  positively  the  last.  "  Farewell  !  I  let 
the  curtain  fall."  The  curtain  never  rose  again  for 
"  '29."  Wemetonce  more  —  a  year  later  —  at  Parker's. 
But  three  were  present,  Smith,  Holmes,  and  myself. 
like  tears. 
ere 


,  ,  , 

No  poem  —  very  quiet  —  something  very  like  t 
The  following  meetings  —  all  at  Dr.  H.'s  house  — 
quiet,  social,  talking  meetings—  the  Doctor  of  course 
doing  the  live  talking.  ...  At  one  of  these  meetings 
four  were  present,  all  the  survivors  but  one  ;  and  there 
was  more  general  talk.  But  never  another  Class 
Poem.' 

This  poem,  and  the  three  following,  appeared  in  Over 
the  Teacups. 

2  The  personal  reference  is  to  our  greatly  beloved 
and  honored  classmate,  James  Freeman  Clarke. 
(HOLMES.) 


The  beaming  eye,  the  cheering  voice, 
That  lent  to. life  a  generous  glow, 

Whose  every  meaning  said  '  Rejok-e,' 
We  see,  we  hear,  no  more  below. 

The  air  seems  darkened  by  his  loss, 

Earth's  shadowed  features  look  less  fair, 

And  heavier  weighs  the  daily  cross  3J 

His  willing  shoulders  helped  us  bear. 


Why  mourn  that  we,  the  favored  few 
Whom  grasping  Time  so  long  has  spared 

Life's  sweet  illusions  to  pursue, 

The  common  lot  of  age  have  shared  ? 

In  every  pulse  of  Friendship's  heart 
There  breeds  unfelt  a  throb  of  pain,  — 

One  hour  must  rend  its  links  apart, 

Though  years  on  years  have  forged  the 
chain.  40 

So  ends  «  The  Boys,'  —  a  lifelong  play. 

We  too  must  hear  the  Prompter's  call 
To  fairer  scenes  and  brighter  day : 

Farewell !     I  let  the  curtain  fall 
1889.  1890. 


LA   MAISON    D'OR 
(BAR  HARBOR) 

FROM  this  fair  home  behold  on  either  side 
The  restful  mountains  or  the  restless  sea: 

So  the  warm  sheltering  walls  of  life  divide 
Time  and  its  tides  from  still  eternity. 

Look  on  the  waves:  their  stormy  voices 

teach 
That  not  on  earth  may  toil  and  struggle 


Look  on  the   mountains:    better  far  than 

speech 

Their  silent  promise  of  eternal  peace. 
1890.  1890. 


TOO   YOUNG   FOR   LOVE 

Too  young  for  love  ? 
Ah,  say  not  so  ! 
Tell  reddening  rosebuds  not  to  blow  ! 


Wait  not  for  spring  to  pass  away,  — 
Love's  summer  months  begin  with  A 


ith  May ! 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


405 


Too  young  for  love  ? 
Ah,  say  not  so  ! 
Too  young  ?   Too  young  ? 
Ah,  no  !  no  !  no  ! 

Too  young  for  love  ? 

Ah,  say  not  so, 

While  daisies  bloom  and  tulips  glow  ! 
June  soon  will  come  with  lengthened  day 
To  practise  all  love  learned  in  May. 

Too  young  for  love  ? 

Ah,  say  not  so  ! 

Too  young  ?   Too  young  ? 

Ah,  no  !  no  !  no  ! 
1890.  1890. 


THE  BROOMSTICK  TRAIN;  OR, 
THE  RETURN  OF  THE  WITCHES  » 

LOOK  out !    Look    out,   boys !    Clear  the 

track  ! 
The  witches  are  here  !   They  've  all  come 

back! 
They  hanged  them   high,  —  No   use  !   No 

use  ! 

What  cares  a  witch  for  a  hangman's  noose  ? 
They  buried  them  deep,  but  they  would  n't 

lie  still, 

For  cats  and  witches  are  hard  to  kill; 
They  swore  they  should  n't  and  would  n't 

die,  — 
Books  said  they  did,  but  they  lie  !  they  lie  ! 

A  couple  of  hundred  years,  or  so, 
They   had    knocked    about   in   the   world 
below,  ,o 

When  an  Essex  Deacon  dropped  in  to  call, 
And  a  homesick  feeling  seized  them  all; 

1  Look  here !  There  are  crowds  of  people  whirled 
through  our  §treets  on  these  new-fashioned  cars,  with 
their  witch-broomsticks  overhead,  —  if  they  don't 
come  from  Salem,  they  ought  to,  — and  not  more  than 
one  in  a  dozen  of  these  fish-eyed  bipeds  thinks  or  cares 
a  nickel's  worth  about  the  miracle  which  is  wrought 
for  their  convenience.  They  know  that  without  hands 
or  feet,  without  horses,  without  steam,  so  far  a*  they 
can  see,  they  are  transported  from  place  to  place,  and 
that  there  is  nothing  to  account  for  it  except  the  witch- 
broomstick  and  the  iron  or  copper  cobweb  which  they 
see  stretched  above  them.  What  do  they  know  or  care 
about  this  last  revelation  of  the  omnipresent  spirit  of 
the  material  universe  ?  We  ought  to  go  down  on  our 
knees  when  one  of  these  mighty  caravans,  car  after 
car,  spins  by  us,  under  the  mystic  impulse  which  seems 
to  know  not  whether  its  train  is  loaded  or  empty. 
(HOLMES,  in  Over  the  Teacups.)  The  first  electric 
trolley-cars  had  just  been  introduced  when  this  poem 
was  written,  in  1890. 


For  he  came  from  a  place  they  knew  full 

well, 

And  many  a  tale  he  had  to  tell. 
They  longed  to  visit  the  haunts  of  men, 
To  see  the  old  dwellings  they  knew  again, 
And  ride  on  their  broomsticks  all  around 
Their  wide  domain  of  unhallowed  ground. 

In  Essex  county  there  's  many  a  roof 
Well  known  to  him  of  the  cloven  hoof;     20 
The  small  square  windows  are  full  in  view 
Which    the    midnight    hags   went   sailing 

through, 
On  their  well-trained  broomsticks  mounted 

high, 

Seen  like  shadows  against  the  sky; 
Crossing  the  track  of  owls  and  bats, 
Hugging  before  them  their  coal-black  cats. 

Well  did  they  know,  those  gray  old  wives, 
The  sights  we  see  in  our  daily  drives: 
Shimmer  of  lake  and  shine  of  sea, 
Browne's  bare  hill  with  its  lonely  tree,      30 
(It  was  n't  then  as  we  see  it  now, 
With  one    scant   scalp-lock    to  shade   its 

brow ;) 

Dusky  nooks  in  the  Essex  woods, 
Dark,  dim,  Dante-like  solitudes, 
Where  the  tree-toad  watches  the  sinuous 

snake 
Glide    through    his    forests   of    fern   and 

brake ; 

Ipswich  River;  its  old  stone  bridge; 
Far  off  Andover's  Indian  Ridge, 
And  many  a  scene  where  history  tells 
Some  shadow  of  bygone  terror  dwells,  —  4o 
Of  '  Norman's  Woe  '  with  its  tale  of  dread, 
Of  the  Screeching  Woman  of  Marblehead, 
(The  fearful  story  that  turns  men  pale: 
Don't  bid  me  tell  it,  —  my  speech  would 

fail.) 

Who  would  not,  will  not,  if  he  can, 
Bathe  in  the  breezes  of  fair  Cape  Ann,  — 
Rest  in  the  bowers  her  bays  enfold, 
Loved  by  the  sachems  and  squaws  of  old  ? 
Home  where  the  white  magnolias  bloom, 
Sweet  with  the  bayberry's  chaste  perfume, 
Hugged  by  the  woods  and  kissed  by  the 
sea !  Si 

Where  is  the  Eden  like  to  thee  ? 
For  that  '  couple  of  hundred  years,  or  so,' 
There  had  been  no  peace  in  the  world  below; 
The  witches  still  grumbling,  '  It  is  n't  fair; 
Come,  give  us  a  taste  of  the  upper  air  1 


406 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


We  've  had  enough  of  your  sulphur  springs, 
And  the  evil  odor  that  round  them  clings; 
We   long   for   a   drink    that   is   cool   and 

nice,  — 

Great  buckets  of  water  with  Wenham  ice ; 
We  've    served    you    well    up-stairs,   you 

know-  6 i 

You  're  a  good  old  —  fellow  —  come,  let  us 

go!' 

I  don't  feel  sure  of  his  being  good, 

But  he    happened    to   be    in  a    pleasant 

mood,  — 
As  fiends  vdth  their  skins  full  sometimes 

are 
(He  'd  been  drinking   with  '  roughs  '  at  a 

Boston  bar). 

So  what  does  he  do  but  up  and  shout 
To  a  graybeard  turnkey,  '  Let  'em  out ! ' 

To  mind  his  orders  was  all  he  knew; 

The  gates  swung  open,  and  out  they  flew.  70 

'  Where  are  our  broomsticks  ?  '  the  beldams 
cried. 

'Here  are  your  broomsticks,'  an  imp  re- 
plied. 

'  They  've  'been  in  —  the  place  you  know  — 
so  long 

They  smell  of  brimstone  uncommon  strong; 

But  they  've  gamed  by  being  left  alone,  — 

Just  look,  and  you  '11  see  how  tall  they  've 
grown.' 

'  And  where  is  my  cat  ? '  a  vixen  squalled. 

'  Yes,  where  are  our  cats  ? '  the  witches 
bawled, 

And  began  to  call  them  all  by  name: 

As  fast  as  they  called  the  cats,  they  came: 

There  was  bob-tailed  Tommy  and  long- 
tailed  Tim,  81 

And  wall-eyed  Jacky  and  green-eyed  Jim, 

And  splay-foot  Benny  and  slim-legged 
Beau, 

And  Skinny  and  Squally,  and  Jerry  and 
Joe, 

And  many  another  that  came  at  call,  — 

It  would  take  too  long  to  count  them  all. 

All  black,  —  one  could  hardly  tell  which 
was  which, 

But  every  cat  knew  his  own  old  witch; 

And  she  knew  hers  as  hers  knew  her,  — 

Ah,  did  n't  they  curl  their  tails  and  purr  !  90 

No  sooner  the  withered  hags  were  free 
Than  out  they  swarmed   for  a  midnight 
spree ; 


I  could  n't  tell  all  they  did  in  rhymes, 

But  the  Essex  people  had  dreadful  times. 

The  Swampscott  fishermen  still  relate 

How  a  strange  sea-monster  stole  their  bait ; 

How  their  nets  were  tangled  in  loops  and 
knots, 

And  they  found  dead  crabs  in  their  lobster- 
pots. 

Poor  Danvers  grieved  for  her  blasted  crops, 

And  Wilmington  mourned  over  mildewed 
hops.  10, 

A  blight  played  havoc  with  Beverly 
beans,  — 

It  was  all  the  work  of  those  hateful  queans  ! 

A  dreadful  panic  began  at  '  Pride's,' 

Where  the  witches  stopped  in  their  mid- 
night rides, 

And  there  rose  strange  rumors  and  vague 
alarms 

'Mid  the  peaceful  dwellers  at  Beverly 
Farms. 

Now  when  the  Boss  of  the  Beldams  found 
That  without  his  leave  they  were  ramping 

round, 
He  called,  —  they  could  hear  him  twenty 

miles,  109 

From  Chelsea  beach  to  the  Misery  Isles; 
The  deafest  old  granny  knew  his  tone 
Without  the  trick  of  the  telephone. 
'  Come  here,  you  witches  !   Come   here  ! ' 


1  At  your  games  of  old,  without  asking  me  ! 
I  '11  give  you  a  little  job  to  do 
That   will  keep  you  stirring,  you  godless 
crew  ! ' 

They  came,  of  course,  at  their  master's  call, 
The  witches,  the  broomsticks,  the  cats,  and 

all; 

He  led  the  hags  to  a  railway  train 
The  horses  were  trying  to  drag  in  vain.  120 
'  Now,    then,'  says   he,  '  you  've  had  your 

fun, 

And  here  are  the  cars  you  Ve  got  to  run. 
The  driver  may  just  unhitch  his  team, 
We   don't    want    horses,    we   don't    want 

steam; 

You  may  keep  your  old  black  cats  to  hug, 
But  the  loaded  train  you  've  got  to  lug.' 

Since  then  on  many  a  car  you  '11  see 

A  broomstick  plain  as  plain  can  be; 

On  every  stick  there  's  a  witch  astride,  — 

The  string  you  see  to  her  leg  is  tied.        130 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


407 


She  will  do  a  mischief  if  she  can, 

But  the  string  is  held  by  a  careful  man, 

And  whenever  the  evil-minded  witch 

Would  cut  some  caper,  he  gives  a  twitch. 

As  for  the  hag,  you  can't  see  her, 

But  hark  !   you  can   hear  her   black  cat's 

purr, 

And  now  and  then,  as  a  car  goes  by, 
You  may  catch  a  gleam  from  her  wicked 

eye. 

Often  you  've  looked  on  a  rushing  train, 
But  just  what  moved  it  was  not  so  plain. 
It  couldn't  be  those  wires  above,  141 

For  they  could  neither  pull  nor  shove ; 
Where  was  the  motor  that  made  it  go 
You  could  n't  guess,  but  now  you  know. 

Remember  my  rhymes  when  you  ride  again 
On    the   rattling   rail  by   the    broomstick 


train  ! 


1890. 


INVITA   MINERVA1 

VEX  not  the  Muse  with  idle  prayers,  — 

She  will  not  hear  thy  call; 
She  steals  upon  thee  unawares, 

Or  seeks  thee  not  at  all. 

Soft  as  the  moonbeams  when  they  sought 

Endym  ion's  fragrant  bower, 
She  parts  the  whispering  leaves  of  thought 

To  show  her  full-blown  flower. 

For  thee  her  wooing  hour  has  passed, 

The  singing  birds  have  flown, 
And  winter  comes  with  icy  blast 

To  chill  thy  buds  unblown. 

Yet,  though  the  woods  no  longer  thrill 
As  once  their  arches  rung, 

1  I  find  the  burden  and  restrictions  of  rhyme  more 
and  more  troublesome  as  I  grow  older.  There  are 
times  when  it  seems  natural  enough  to  employ  that 
form  of  expression,  but  it  is  only  occasionally  ;  and  the 
use  of  it  as  a  vehicle  of  the  commonplace  is  so  preva- 
lent that  one  is  not  much  tempted  to  select  it  as  the 
medium  for  his  thoughts  and  emotions.  The  art  of 
rhyming  has  almost  become  a  part  of  a  high-school 
education,  and  its  practice  is  far  from  being  an  evi- 
dence of  intellectual  distinction.  Mediocrity  is  as 
much  forbidden  to  the  poet  in  our  days  as  it  was  in 
those  of  Horace,  and  the  immense  majority  of  the 
verses  written  are  stamped  with  hopeless  mediocrity. 

When  one  of  the  ancient  poets  found  he  was  trying 
to  grind  out  verses  which  came  unwillingly,  he  said  he 


was  writing  Invita  Minerva.     (HOLMES,  "in   Over  the 
a.) 


Tta-Cups,  introducing  the  poem. 


Sweet  echoes  hover  round  thee  still 
Of  songs  thy  summer  sung. 

Live  in  thy  past;  await  no  more 
The  rush  of  heaven-sent  wings; 

Earth  still  has  music  left  in  store 
While  Memory  sighs  and  sings. 


1890. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 
1819-1891 

THOU  shouldst   have    sung  the  swan-song 

for  the  choir 
That  filled  our  groves  with  music  till  the 

day 

Lit  the  last  hilltop  with  its  reddening  fire, 
And  evening  listened  for   thy  lingering 
lay. 

But  thou  hast  found  thy  voice  in  realms 

afar 
Where  strains  celestial  blend  their  notes 

with  thine; 
Some  cloudless  sphere    beneath  a  happier 

star 

Welcomes  the   bright-winged   spirit  we 
resign. 

How  Nature  mourns  thee  in  the  still  re- 
treat 

Where  passed  in  peace  thy  love-enchanted 

hours !  10 

Where  shall  she  find  an  eye  like  thine  to 

greet 

Spring's  earliest  footprints  on  her  open- 
ing flowers  ? 

Have  the  pale  wayside  weeds  no  fond  re- 
gret 

For  him  who  read  the  secrets  they  en- 
fold ? 

Shall  the  proud  spangles  of  the  field  forget 
The  verse  that  lent  new  glory  to  their 
gold? 

And    ye   whose    carols   wooed   his  infant 

ear, 
Whose  chants  with  answering  woodnotes 

he  repaid, 

Have  ye  no  song  his  spirit  still  may  hear 
From  Elmwood's  vaults  of  overarching 
shade  ?  20 


408 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Friends  of  his  studious  hours,  who  thronged 

to  teach 
The   deep-read  scholar  all  your  varied 

lore, 
Shall  he  no  longer  seek  your    shelves   to 

reach 

The  treasure    missing   from   his  world- 
wide store  ? 


This  singer  whom  we  long  have  held  so  dear 
Was  Nature's  darling,  shapely,  strong, 
and  fair; 

Of  keenest  wit,  of  judgment  crystal-clear, 
Easy  of  converse,  courteous,  debonair, 

Fit  for  the  loftiest  or  the  lowliest  lot, 
Self-poised,   imperial,    yet    of    simplest 
ways;  30 

At  home  alike  in  castle  or  in  cot, 

True   to   his   aim,  let   others   blame  or 
praise. 

Freedom  he   found  an  heirloom  from  his 

sires; 
Song,  letters,  statecraft,  shared  his  years 

in  turn; 

All  went  to  feed  the  nation's  altar-fires 
Whose  mourning   children  wreathe   his 
funeral  urn. 

He   loved   New    England,  —  people,    lan- 
guage, soil, 

Unweaned  by  exile  from  her  arid  breast. 

Farewell  awhile,  white-handed  son  of  toil, 

Go  with  her  brown-armed  laborers  to  thy 

rest.  40 

Peace  to  thy  slumber  in  the  forest  shade  ! 

Poet  and  patriot,  every  gift  was  thine; 

Thy  name  shall  live  while  summers  bloom 

and  fade, 
And  grateful  Memory  guard  thy  leafy 

shrine  ! 
1891.  1891. 


IN   MEMORY     OF  JOHN    GREEN- 
LEAF   WHITTIER 

DECEMBER    17,    l8o7~SEPTEMBER    7,    1892 

THOU,  too,  hast  left  us.     While  with  heads 

bowed  low, 

And  sorrowing  hearts,  we  mourned  our 
summer's  dead, 


The  flying  season  bent  its  Parthian  bow, 
And  yet  again  our  mingling  tears  were 
shed. 

Was   Heaven  impatient  that  it  could  not 

wait 
The  blasts  of  winter  for  earth's  fruits  to 

fall? 

Were  angels  crowding  round  the  open  gate 
To  greet  the  spirits  coming  at  their  call  ? 

Nay,   let    not     fancies,    born  of    old   be- 
liefs, 

Play  with  the  heart-beats  that  are  throb- 
bing still,  10 
And  waste  their  outworn  phrases  on  the 

griefs, 

The  silent  griefs  that   words   can  only 
chill. 

For  thee,  dear  friend,  there  needs  no  high- 
wrought  lay, 
To  shed  its  aureole  round  thy  cherished 

name,  — 
Thou   whose    plain,  home-born   speech  of 

Yea  and  Nay 
Thy  truthful  nature  ever  best  became. 

Death  reaches  not  a  spirit  such  as  thine,  — 
It  can  but  steal   the  robe  that  hid  thy 

wings; 
Though   thy  warm  breathing  presence  we 

resign, 

Still  in  our  hearts  its  loving  semblance 
clings.  20 

Peaceful  thy  message,  yet  for  struggling 

right,  — 
When  Slavery's  gauntlet  in  our  face  was 

flung,  — 

While  timid  weaklings   watched  the  dubi- 
ous fight 
No  herald's  challenge  more  defiant  rung. 

Yet  was  thy  spirit  tuned  to  gentle  themes 
Sought  in  the  haunts  thy  humble  youth 

had  known. 
Our  stern  New  England's  hills  and  vales 

and  streams,  — 
Thy  tuneful  idyls  made  them  all  their  own. 

The  wild  flowers  springing  from  thy  native 

sod 

Lent  all    their   charms   thy    new-world 
song  to  fill,  —  30 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


409 


Gave  thee  the  mayflower  and  the  golden- 
rod 
To  match  the  daisy  and  the  daffodil. 

In  the  brave  records  of  our  earlier  time 
A  hero's  deed  thy  generous  soul  inspired, 

And  many  a  legend,  told  in  ringing  rhyme, 
The  youthful  soul  with  high  resolve  has 
fired. 

Not  thine  to  lean  on  priesthood's  broken 

reed; 

No  barriers  caged  thee  in  a  bigot's  fold; 
Did  zealots  ask  to  syllable  thy  creed, 
Thou  saidst  '  Our  Father,'  and  thy  creed 
was  told.  40 


Best  loved  and  saintliest  of    our   singing 

train, 

Earth's  noblest  tributes  to  thy  name  be- 
long. 

A  lifelong  record  closed  without  a  stain, 
A  blameless  memory  shrined  in  deathless 


Lift  from   its  quarried   ledge   a  flawless 

stone ; 
Smooth  the  green  turf  and  bid  the  tablet 

rise, 

And  on  its  snow-white  surface  carve  alone 
These  words,  —  he  needs  no  more,  — 

HERE  WJIITTIER  LIES. 
1892.  1892, 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 


'FOR  THIS  TRUE  NOBLENESS   I 
SEEK   IN   VAIN' 

*  FOR  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain, 

In  woman  and  in  man  I  find  it  not; 

I  almost  weary  of  my  earthly  lot, 

My  life-springs  are  dried  up  with  burning 

pain.' 
Thou  find'st  it    not  ?     I   pray    thee    look 

again, 
Look  inward  through  the   depths  of  thine 

own  soul. 
How  is  it  with  thee  ?     Art  thou  sound  and 

whole  ? 
Doth  narrow  search  show  thee  no  earthly 

stain  ? 

BE  NOBLE  !  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
In  other  men,  sleeping,  but  never  dead, 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own; 
Then  wilt  thou  see  it  gleam  in  many 

eyes, 
Then  will  pure  light  around   thy  path  be 

shed* 

And  thou  wilt  nevermore  be  sad  and  lone. 
1840.  1840. 


MY  LOVE' 

NOT  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow.  10 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot, 

i  On  the  poems  of  1840  and  1841,  see  Scudder's  Life 
of  Lowell,  vol.  i,  pp.  76-97. 


Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise: 

For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 

And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 

Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes.  2» 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things, 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  intwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

Blessing  she  is:  God  made  her  so, 

And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 

Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 

Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 

That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless.        30 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 

She  is  a  woman:  one  in  whom 
The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 
Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears.  4o 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Seems  following  its  own  wayward  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 

And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 

Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie; 

It  flows  around  them  and  between, 

And    makes    them    fresh     and    fair    and 

green, 

Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die.       50 
1840.  1840. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


411 


•MY     LOVE,    I     HAVE    NO    FEAR 
THAT  THOU  SHOULDST  DIE' 

MY  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shouldst 

die; 

Albeit  I  ask  no  fairer  life  than  this, 
Whose  numbering-clock  is  still  thy  gentle 

kiss, 

While   Time  and   Peace  with   hands   en- 
locked  fly; 

Yet  care  I  not  where  in  Eternity 
We  live  and  love,  well  knowing  that  there  is 
No  backward  step  for  those  who  feel  the 

bliss 
Of   Faith   as   their   most   lofty   yearnings 

high: 

Love  hath  so  purified  my  being's  core, 
Meseems  1  scarcely  should  be  startled,  even, 
To  find,  some   morn,  that  thou  hadst  gone 

before ; 
Since,  with  thy  love,  this  knowledge  too 

was  given, 
Which    each   calm    day   doth    strengthen 

more  and  more, 
That  they  who  love  are  but  one  step  from 

Heaven. 
1841.  (1843.) 


'I  ASK  NOT  FOR  THOSE 
THOUGHTS,  THAT  SUDDEN 
LEAP' 

I  ASK  not  for  those  thoughts,  that  sudden 

leap 
From   being's   sea,   like    the    isle-seeming 

Kraken, 
With  whose   great  rise  the  ocean  all   is 

shaken 
And  a  heart-tremble  quivers  through  the 

deep; 
Give  me  that  growth  which  some  perchance 

deem  sleep, 

Wherewith  the  steadfast  coral-stems  uprise, 
Which,  by  the  toil  of  gathering  energies, 
Their  upward  way  into  clear  sunshine  keep, 
Until,  by  Heaven's  sweetest  influences, 
Slowly  and  slowly  spreads  a  speck  of  green 
Into  a  pleasant  island  in  the  seas, 
Where,  'mid  tall  palms,   the   cane-roofed 

home  is  seen, 

And  wearied  men  shall  sit  at  sunset's  hour, 
Hearing  the  leaves  and  loving  God's  dear 

power. 
1841.  (1843.) 


'  GREAT  TRUTHS  ARE  PORTIONS 
OF  THE  SOUL  OF  MAN' 

GREAT  Truths  are  portions  of  the  soul  of 

man; 

Great  souls  are  portions  of  Eternity; 
Each  drop  of  blood  that  e'er  through  true 

heart  ran 
With  lofty    message,   ran    for    thee   and 

me; 
For    God's    law,   since    the    starry    song 

began, 
Hath   been,   and   still   forevennore    must 

be, 
That  every  deed  which  shall  outlast  Time's 

span 

Must  spur  the  soul  to  be  erect  and  free; 
Slave    is  no    word  of    deathless    lineage 

sprung; 
Too  many  noble  souls   have  thought  and 

died, 

Too  many  mighty  poets  lived  and  sung, 
And  our  good  Saxon,  from  lips  purified 
With  martyr-fire,  throughout  the  world 

hath  rung 

Too  long  to  have  God's  holy  cause  denied. 
1841.  1842. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  KEATS 

GREAT  soul,  thou  sittest  with  me  in  my 
room, 

Uplifting  me  with  thy  vast,  quiet  eyes, 

On  whose  full  orbs,  with  kindly  lustre, 
lies 

The  twilight  warmth  of  ruddy  ember- 
gloom: 

Thy  clear,  strong  tones  will  oft  bring  sud- 
den bloom 

Of  hope  secure,  to  him  who  lonely  cries, 

Wrestling  with  the  young  poet's  agonies, 

Neglect  and  scorn,  which  seem  a  certain 
doom: 

Yes !  the  few  words  which,  like  great 
thunder-drops, 

Thy  large  heart  down  to  earth  shook  doubt- 
fully, 

Thrilled  by  the  inward  lightning  of  its 
might, 

Serene  and  pure,  like  gushing  joy  of  light, 

Shall  track  the  eternal  chords  of  Des- 
tiny, 

After  the  moon-led  pulse  of  ocean  stops. 

1841.  1842, 


412 


CHIEF  AMERICAN  POETS 


'OUR   LOVE   IS    NOT   A   FADING 
EARTHLY   FLOWER' 

OUR  love  is  not  a  fading  earthly  flower: 
Its  winged  seed  dropped  down  from  Para- 
dise, 
And,  nursed  by  day  and  night,  by  sun  and 

shower, 

Doth  momently  to  fresher  beauty  rise: 
To  us  the  leafless  autumn  is  not  bare, 
Nor  winter's   rattling    boughs   lack   lusty 

green. 

Our  summer   hearts  make  summer's  ful- 
ness, where 

No  leaf,  or  bud,  or  blossom  may  be  seen: 
For  nature's  life  in  love's  deep  life  doth  lie, 
Love,  —  whose    forgetf ulness    is    beauty's 

death, 

Whose  mystic  key  these  cells  of  Thou  and  I 
Into  the  infinite  freedom  openeth, 
And   makes   the  body's  dark  and  narrow 

grate 
The  wide-flung  leaves   of  Heaven's  own 

palace-gate. 
1842.  1843. 


•BELOVED,  IN  THE  NOISY  CITY 
HERE' 

BELOVED,  in  the  noisy  city  here, 

The  thought  of  thee  can  make  all  turmoil 

cease; 

Around  my  spirit,  folds  thy  spirit  clear 
Its  still,  soft  arms,  and  circles  it  with  peace ; 
There  is  no  room  for  any  doubt  or  fear 
In  souls  so  overfilled  with  love's  increase, 
There  is  no  memory  of  the  bygone  year 
But  growth  in  heart's  and  spirit's  perfect 

ease: 

How  hath  our  love,  half  nebulous  at  first, 
Rounded  itself  into  a  full-orbed  sun  ! 
How  have  our  lives  and  wills  (as  haply  erst 
They  were,  ere  this  forgetfulness  begun) 
Through   all  their   earthly   distances  out- 
burst, 

And  melted,  like  two  rays  of  light  in  one  ! 
1842.  (1843.) 

SONG 

O  MOONLIGHT  deep  and  tender, 

A  year  and  more  agone, 
Your  mist  of  golden  splendor 

Hound  my  betrothal  shone  ! 


O  elm-leaves  dark  and  dewy, 

The  very  same  ye  seem, 
The  low  wind  trembles  through  ye, 

Ye  murmur  in  my  dream  ! 

O  river,  dim  with  distance, 

Flow  thus  forever  by, 
A  part  of  my  existence 

Within  your  heart  doth  lie  ! 

O  stars,  ye  saw  our  meeting, 
Two  beings  and  one  soul, 

Two  hearts  so  madly  beating 
To  mingle  and  be  whole  ! 

O  happy  night,  deliver 

Her  kisses  back  to  me, 
Or  keep  them  all,  and  give  her 

A  blissful  dream  of  me  ! 


(1843.) 


THE    SHEPHERD    OF    KING    AD- 
METUS 

THERE  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth, 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose  slender  hands  were  nothing  worth, 
Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

Upon  an  empty  tortoise-shell 

He  stretched  some  chords,  and  drew 
Music  that  made  men's  bosoms  swell 
Fearless,  or  brimmed  their  eyes  with  dew. 

Then  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 

Pure  taste  by  right  divine,  10 

Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 
To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine: 

And  so,  well  pleased  with  being  soothed 

Into  a  sweet  half-sleep, 
Three  times  his  kingly  beard  he  smoothed, 
And  made  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His  words  were  simple  words  enough, 

And  yet  he  used  them  so, 
That  what  in  other  mouths  was  rough 
In  his  seemed  musical  and  low.  20 

Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth, 

In  whom  no  good  they  saw; 
And  yet,  unwittingly,  in  truth, 
They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For  idly,  hour  by  hour, 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
Or  mused  upon  a  common  flower. 

it  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 

Did  teach  him  all  their  use,  30 

For,  in  mere  weeds,  and  stones,  and  springs, 
He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise, 

But,  when  a  glance  they  caught 
Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes, 
They   laughed,  and  called   him   good-for- 
naught. 

Yet  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 
More  full  of  love,  because  of  him.  4o 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 
Each  spot  where  he  had  trod, 
Till  after-poets  only  knew 
Their  first-born  brother  as  a  god. 

1842. 

AN    INCIDENT  IN  A   RAILROAD 
CAR 

HE  spoke  of  Burns:  men  rude  and  rough 

Pressed  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 

Whose  heart  was  made  of  manly,  simple 

stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when  he  read,  they  forward  leaned, 
Drinking,  with  thirsty  hearts  and  ears, 
His   brook-like   songs  whom   glory  never 

weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe, 
Sun-like,  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard,     10 
As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong 
And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and 

strong 
In  high  humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence 
Promptings  their  former  life  above, 


And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 

For  beauty,  truth,  and  love.  20 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side 
Freely  among  his  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide, 
Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds 
Of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Which  burst,  unlocked  for,  into  high-souled 

deeds, 
With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth,        30 
Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bear  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 

Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 
These  promises  of  wider  bliss, 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die, 
In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 
In  life  or  death,  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 

The  angel  heart  of  man.  4o 

And  thus,  among  the  untaught  poor, 
Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home, 
That  cast  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  and  Rome. 

0  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 
Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 
O'er-roof  infinity  ! 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul,    50 
And  from  the  many  slowly  upward  win 
To  one  who  grasps  the  whole: 

In  his  wide  brain  the  feeling  deep 
That  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue 
Swells  to  a  tide  of  thought,  whose  surges 

leap 
O'er  the  weak  thrones  of  wrong. 

All   thought    begins  in    feeling,  —  wide 
In  the  great  mass  its  base  is  hid, 
And,   narrowing    up    to    thought,    stands 

glorified, 
A  moveless  pyramid.  60 


414 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Nor  is  he  far  astray,  who  deems 

That  every  hope,  which  rises  and  grows 

broad 
In  the  world's  heart,  by  ordered  impulse 

streams 
From  the  great  heart  of  God. 

God  wills,  man  hopes:  in  common  souls 
Hope  is  but  vague  and  undefined, 
Till    from  the  poet's  tongue  the  message 

rolls 
A  blessing  to  his  kind. 

Never  did  Poesy  appear 
So  full  of  heaven  to  me,  as  when  7o 

I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride 

and  fear 
To  the  lives  of  coarsest  men. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 

Thoughts   that   shall   glad    the  two   or 

three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come 

in  sight 
Once  in  a  century ;  — 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men;  go 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and   manhood 

shine 
In  the  untutored  heart. 

He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose, 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crowned  at  last  with 

those 

Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 
1842.  1842. 


STANZAS    ON    FREEDOM  1 

MEN  !  whose  boast  it  is  that  ye 
Come  of  fathers  brave  and  free, 

1  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  in  publicly  espousing 
the  cause  of  abolition  so  early  as  1843  Lowell  made  per- 
sonal and  social  sacrifices  even  greater  than  Whittier's. 
See  hia  passage  on  Whittier,  and  that  on  himself,  in  the 
'Fable  for  Critics;'  and  Scudder's  Life  of  Lowell, 
vol.  i,  pp.  105, 108-175, 211  and  following,  and  especially 
183,  184,  where  Lowell  speaks  in  particular  of  these 
•Stanzas  on  Freedom,'  which  were  written  for  an  anti- 


If  there  breathe  on  earth  a  slave, 
Are  ye  truly  free  and  brave  ? 
If  ye  do  not  feel  the  chain, 
When  it  works  a  brother's  pain, 
Are  ye  not  base  slaves  indeed, 
Slaves  unworthy  to  be  freed  ? 

Women  !  who  shall  one  day  bear 

Sons  to  breathe  New  England  air,         :« 

If  ye  hear,  without  a  blush, 

Deeds  to  make  the  roused  blood  rush 

Like  red  lava  through  your  veins, 

For  your  sisters  now  in  chains,  — 

Answer  !  are  ye  fit  to  be 

Mothers  of  the  brave  and  free  ? 

Is  true  Freedom  but  to  break 
Fetters  for  our  own  dear  sake, 
And,  with  leathern  hearts,  forget 
That  we  owe  mankind  a  debt  ?  2c 

No  !  true  freedom  is  to  share 
All  the  chains  our  brothers  wear, 
And,  with  heart  and  hand,  to  be 
Earnest  to  make  others  free  ! 

They  are  slaves  who  fear  to  speak 
For  the  fallen  and  the  weak; 
They  are  slaves  who  will  not  choose 
Hatred,  scoffing,  and  abuse, 
Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 
From  the  truth  they  needs  must  think; 
They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be  3' 

In  the  right  with  two  or  three. 
1843.  1843. 


WENDELL   PHILLIPS 

HE  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  thresh- 
old; wide 
The  din  of  battle  and  of  slaughter  rose; 

slavery  reunion  held  on  the  anniversary  of  West  Indian 
Emancipation,  and  were  first  printed  under  the  title 
given  in  this  letter :  '  This  puts  me  in  mind  of  Long- 
fellow's suppression  of  his  anti-slavery  pieces.  [These 
had  been  omitted  in  one  edition  of  Longfellow's  poems, 
published  at  Philadelphia.]  Sydney  Gay  wishes  to 
know  whether  I  think  he  spoke  too  harshly  of  the  af- 
fair. I  think  he  did  .  .  .  and  this  not  because  I  agree 
with  what  he  tells  me  is  your  notion  of  the  matter  .  .  . 
—  for  I  do  not  think  that  an  author  has  a  right  to 
suppress  anything  that  God  has  given  him  —  but  be- 
cause I  believe  that  Longfellow  esteemed  them  of  in- 
ferior quality  to  his  other  poems.  For  myself,  when  I 
was  printing  my  second  volume  of  poems,  Owen  wished 
to  suppress  a  certain  "  Song  sung  at  an  Anti-Slavery 
Picnic."  I  never  saw  him,  but  he  urged  me  with  I 
know  not  what  worldly  arguments.  My  only  answer 
was  :  "  Let  all  the  others  be  suppressed  if  you  will  — 
that  I  will  never  suppress."  ' 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


He  saw  God  stand  upon  the  weaker  side, 
That  sank  in  seeming  loss  before  its  foes: 
Many  there  were  who  made  great  haste 

and  sold 

Unto  the  cunning  enemy  their  swords, 
He  scorned  their  gifts  of  fame,  and  power, 

and  gold, 
And,  underneath   their   soft   and    flowery 

words, 
Heard  the  cold  serpent  hiss;  therefore  he 

went 
And    humbly   joined    him   to  the  weaker 

part, 

Fanatic  named,  and  fool,  yet  well  content 
So  he  could  be  the  nearer  to  God's  heart, 
And  feel  its  solemn  pulses  sending  blood 
Through  all  the  widespread  veins  of  end- 
less good. 

(1843.) 

RHCECUS1 

GOD  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age, 
To  every  clime,  and  every  race  of  men, 
With  revelations  fitted  to  their  growth 
And  shape  of  mind,  nor  gives  the  realm  of 

Into  the  selfish  rule  of  one  sole  race : 
Therefore  each  form  of  worship  that  hath 

swayed 

The  life  of  man,  and  given  it  to  grasp 
The  master-key  of  knowledge,  reverence, 
Infolds   some  germs   of   goodness   and   of 

right; 
Else   never    had    the   eager    soul,    which 

loathes  10 

The  slothful  down  of  pampered  ignorance, 
Found  in  it  even  a  moment's  fitful  rest. 

There  is  an  instinct  in  the  human  heart 
Which  makes  that  all  the   fables   it  hath 

coined, 

To  justify  the  reign  of  its  belief 
And  strengthen  it  by  beauty's  right  divine, 
Veil  in  their  inner  cells  a  mystic  gift, 
Which,   like   the   hazel    twig,   in   faithful 

hands, 

Points  surely  to  the  hidden  springs  of  truth. 
For,  as  in  nature  naught  is  made  in  vain,  20 
But  all  things  have  within  their  hull  of 

use 

A  wisdom  and  a  meaning  which  may  speak 
Of  spiritual  secrets  to  the  ear 
Of  spirit;  so,  in  whatso'er  the  heart 
1  Compare  Lander's  '  The  Hamadryad.' 


Hath  fashioned  for  a  solace  to  itself, 
To  make  its  inspirations  suit  its  creed, 
And  from  the  niggard  hands  of  falsehood 

wring 

Its  needful  food  of  truth,  there  ever  is 
A  sympathy  with  Nature,  which  reveals, 
Not  less  than  her  own  works,  pure  gleams 

of  light  30 

And  earnest  parables  of  inward  lore. 
Hear  now  this  fairy  legend  of  old  Greece, 
As  full  of  gracious  youth,  and  beauty  still 
As  the  immortal  freshness  of  that  grace 
Carved  for  all  ages  on  some  Attic  frieze. 

A  youth   named  R!HBCUS,  wandering  in 

the  wood, 

Saw  an  old  oak  just  trembling  to  its  fall, 
And,  feeling  pity  of  so  fair  a  tree, 
He  propped  its  gray  trunk  with  admiring 

care, 
And  with   a  thoughtless   footstep  loitered 

on.  40 

But,  as  he  turned,  he  heard  a  voice  behind 
That  murmured  '  Rhcecus  !  '   'T  was  as  if 

the  leaves, 
Stirred  by  a  passing  breath,  had  murmured 

it, 

And,  while  he  paused  bewildered,  yet  again 
It   murmured   '  Rhoacus  ! '    softer   than   a 

breeze. 

He  started  and  beheld  with  dizzy  eyes 
What  seemed  the   substance   of  a   happy 

dream 
Stand  there  before  him,  spreading  a  warm 

glow 
Within  the  green  glooms  of  the  shadowy 

oak. 
It  seemed  a  woman's   shape,  yet  far  too 

fair  5o 

To  be  a  woman,  and  with  eyes  too  meek 
For  any  that  were  wont  to  mate  with  gods. 
All  naked  like  a  goddess  stood  she  there, 
And  like  a  goddess  all  too  beautiful 
To  feel  the  guilt-born  earthliness  of  shame. 
'  Rho3cus,  I  am  the  Dryad  of  this  tree,' 
Thus  she  began,   dropping  her   low-toned 

words 
Serene,   and   full,  and  clear,  as   drops  of 

dew, 

'  And  with  it  I  am  doomed  to  live  and  die; 
The  rain  and  sunshine  are  my  caterers,     6? 
Nor  have  I  other  bliss  than  simple  life ; 
Now   ask   me  what  thou  wilt,  that  I  can 

give, 
And  with  a  thankful  joy  it  shall  be  thine: 


4i6 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Then  Rhcecus,  with  a  flutter  at  the  heart, 
Yet  by  the  prompting  of  such  beauty  bold, 
Answered:  *  What  is  there  that  can  satisfy 
The  endless  craving  of  the  soul  but  love  ? 
Give  me  thy  love,  or  but  the  hope  of  that 
Which  must  be  evermore  my  nature's  goal.' 
After  a  little  pause  she  said  again,  70 

But  with  a  glimpse  of  sadness  in  her  tone, 
'I  give  it,  Rhcecus,  though  a  perilous  gift; 
An  hour  before  the  sunset  meet  me  here.' 
And  straightway    there    was   nothing  he 

could  see 
But  the  green  glooms  beneath  the  shadowy 

oak, 

And  not  a  sound  came  to  his  straining  ears 
But  the  low  trickling  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
And  far  away  upon  an  emerald  slope 
The  falter  of  an  idle  shepherd's  pipe. 

Now,  in  those  days   of  simpleness  and 

faith,  80 

Men  did  not  think  that  happy  things  were 


.Because  they  overstepped  the  narrow  bourn 

Of  likelihood,  but  reverently  deemed 

Nothing  too  wondrous  or  too  beautiful 

To  be  the  guerdon  of  a  daring  heart. 

So  Rhcecus  made  no  doubt  that  he  was  blest, 

And  all  along  unto  the  city's  gate 

Earth  seemed  to  spring  beneath  him  as  he 

walked, 
The  clear,  broad  sky  looked  bluer  than  its 

wont, 
And  he  could  scarce  believe  he  had  not 

wings,  90 

Such  sunshine  seemed  to  glitter  through 

his  veins 
Instead    of  blood,   so   light    he   felt  and 

strange. 

Young  Rhcecus  had  a  faithful  heart 
enough, 

But  one  that  in  the  present  dwelt  too 
much, 

And,  taking  with  blithe  welcome  whatso- 
e'er 

Chance  gave  of  joy,  was  wholly  bound  in 
that, 

Like  the  contented  peasant  of  a  vale, 

Deemed  it  the  world,  and  never  looked 
beyond. 

So,  haply  meeting  in  the  afternoon 

Some  comrades  who  were  playing  at  the 
dice,  ioo 

He  joined  them,  and  forgot  all  else  beside. 


The  dice  were  rattling  at  the  merriest, 
And  Rhcecus,  who  had  met  but  sorry  luck, 
Just  laughed  in  triumph  at  a  happy  throw, 
When  through  the  room  there  hummed  a 

yellow  bee 

That   buzzed    about   his   ear   with   down- 
dropped  legs 
As  if  to  light.    And  Rhcecus  laughed  and 

said, 
Feeling  how  red  and  flushed  he  was  with 

loss, 

'  By  Venus  !  does  he  take  me  for  a  rose  ? ' 
And  brushed  him  off  with  rough,  impatient 

hand.  MO 

But  still  the  bee  came  back,  and  thrice 

again 
Rhcecus   did   beat   him   off   with  growing 

wrath. 
Then  through  the  window  flew  the  wounded 

bee, 
And   Rhcecus,  'tracking   him    with   angry 

eyes, 

Saw  a  sharp  mountain-peak  of  Thessaly 
Against  the  red  disk  of  the  setting  sun,  — 
And   instantly   the    blood   sank   from   his 

heart,  , 

As  if  its  very  walls  had  caved  away. 
Without  a  word   he   turned,  and,  rushing 

forth, 

Ran  madly  through  the  city  and  the  gate, 
And  o'er  the  plain,  which  now  the  wood's 

long  shade,  121 

By  the  low  sun  thrown  forward  broad  and 

dim, 
Darkened  wellnigh  unto  the  city's  wall. 

Quite  spent  and  out  of  breath  he  reached 
the  tree, 

And,  listening  fearfully,  he  heard  once 
more 

The  low  voice  murmur  '  Rhcecus  ! '  close  at 
hand: 

Whereat  he  looked  around  him,  but  could 
see 

Naught  but  the  deepening  glooms  beneath 
the  oak. 

Then  sighed  the  voice,  '  O  Rhcecus  !  never- 
more 

Shalt  thou  behold  me  or  by  day  or  night, 

Me,  who  would  fain  have  blessed  thee  with 
a  love  131 

More  ripe  and  bounteous  than  ever  yet 

Filled  up  with  nectar  any  mortal  heart: 

But  thou  didst  scorn  my  humble  mes- 
senger, 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


And  sent'st  him  back  to  me  with  bruised 

wings. 

We  spirits  only  show  to  gentle  eyes, 
We  ever  ask  an  undivided  love, 
And  he  who  scorns  the  least  of  Nature's 

works 

Is  thenceforth  exiled  and  shut  out  from  all. 
Farewell !  for  thou  canst  never  see   me 

more.'  140 

Then    Rhcecus     beat    his    breast,    and 

groaned  aloud, 

And  cried,  '  Be  pitiful !  forgive  me  yet 
This  once,  and  I  shall  never  need  it  more  ! ' 
'  Alas  ! '  the  voice  returned,  '  't  is  thou  art 

blind, 

Not  I  unmerciful;  I  can  forgive, 
But  have  no  skill  to  heal  thy  spirit's  eyes; 
Only  the  soul  hath  power  o'er  itself.' 
With  that  again  there  murmured  '  Never- 
more ! ' 

And  Rhfficus  after  heard  no  other  sound, 
Except  the    rattling  of    the    oak's   crisp 
leaves,  150 

Like  the  long  surf  upon  a  distant  shore, 
Raking  the  sea-worn  pebbles  up  and  down. 
The  night  had   gathered  round  him:   o'er 

the  plain 

The  city  sparkled  with  its  thousand  lights, 
And  sounds  of  revel  fell  upon  his  ear 
Harshly  and  like  a  curse;  above,  the  sky, 
With  all  its  bright  sublimity  of  stars, 
Deepened,  and  on  his  forehead  smote  the 

breeze : 

Beauty  was  all  around  him  and  delight, 
But  from  that  eve  he  was  alone  on  earth.  160 

(1843.) 

TO  THE  DANDELION 

DEAR  common  flower,  that  grow'st  be- 
side the  way, 
Fringing   the    dusty   road   with   harmless 

gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and   full  of   pride 

uphold, 
High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that 

they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear 

to  me 

Than   all   the    prouder   summer-blooms 
may  be. 


Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Span- 
ish prow  10 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease; 
'T  is  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scat- 
ters now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
•To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ;  20 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed   not  space  or 

time: 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more    summer-like  warm   ravish- 
ment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles 
burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the 


Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 
Where,  as  the  breezes  pass,  30 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above, 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb 
doth  move. 

My    childhood's  earliest    thoughts    are 

linked  with  thee ; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's 

song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long,  40 

And  I,  secure  hi  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With   news   from   heaven,   which    he 

could  bring 

Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 
When   birds  and    flowers   and  I  were 
happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common 

art! 
Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 


4i8 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 
Since   each    reflects   in    joy   its    scanty 
gleam  5o 

Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret 

show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom 

look 

On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 
1844  f  1845. 


COLUMBUS 

THE  cordage    creaks   and  rattles   in  the 

wind, 
With  whims  of   sudden  hush;  the  reeling 

sea 
Now  thumps  like   solid  rock  beneath  the 

stern, 
Now   leaps    with     clumsy   wrath,    strikes 

short,  and  falling, 
Crumbled  to  whispery  foam,  slips  rustling 

down 
The  broad  backs  of  the  waves,  which  jostle 

and  crowd 
To   fling  themselves    upon  that   unknown 

shore, 
Their    used    familiar    since  the  dawn  of 

time, 

Whither  this  foredoomed  life  is  guided  on 
To    sway    on   triumph's   hushed,   aspiring 

poise  10 

One  glittering  moment,  then  to  break  ful- 

filled. 

How  lonely  is  the  sea's  perpetual  swing, 
The  melancholy  wash  of  endless  waves, 
The  sigh  of  some  grim  monster  undescried, 
Fear-painted  on  the  canvas  of  the  dark, 
Shifting  on  his  uneasy  pillow  of  brine  ! 
Yet  night  brings  more  companions  than  the 

day 
To  this   drear  waste;    new   constellations 

burn, 
And  fairer   stars,  with  whose  calm  height 

my  soul 

Finds  nearer  sympathy  than  with  my  herd  20 
Of  earthen  souls,  whose  vision's  scanty  ring 
Makes  me  its  prisoner  to  beat  my  wings 
Against  the  cold  bars  of  their  unbelief, 
Knowing  in  vain  my  own  free  heaven  be- 
yond. 

O  God  !  this  world,  so  crammed  with  eager 
life, 


That  comes  and  goes  and  wanders  back  ta 

silence 

Like  the  idle  wind,  which  yet  man's  shap- 
ing mind 
Can  make  his  drudge  to  swell  the  longing 

sails 
Of  highest   endeavor,  —  this  mad,  unthrif t 

world, 
Which,   every    hour,    throws  life   enough 

away  3u 

To  make  her  deserts  kind  and  hospitable, 
Lets  her  great  destinies  be  waved  aside 
By  smooth,  lip-reverent,  formal  infidels, 
Who  weigh  the  God  they  not  believe  with 

gold, 

And  find  no  spot  in  Judas,  save  that  he, 
Driving  a  duller  bargain  than  he  ought, 
Saddled  his  guild  with  too  cheap  precedent. 
O  Faith  !   if  thou  art  strong,  thine  opposite 
Is  mighty  also,  and  the  dull  fool's  sneer 
Hath  ofttimes  shot  chill  palsy  through  the 

arm  40 

Just  lifted  to  achieve  its  crowning  deed, 
And  made  the  firm-based  heart,  that  would 

have  quailed 

The  rack  or  fagot,  shudder  like  a  leaf 
Wrinkled  with   frost,  and  loose   upon   its 

stem. 
The  wicked  and  the  weak,  by  some  dark 

law, 
Have  a  strange  power  to  shut  and  rivet 

down 

Their  own  horizon  round  us,  to  unwing 
Our  heaven-aspiring  visions,  and  to  blur 
With  surly  clouds  the  Future's  gleaming 

peaks, 
Far  seen   across     the   brine   of   thankless 

years.  5c 

If  the  chosen  soul  could  never  be  alone 
In  deep  mid-silence,  open-doored  to  God, 
No  greatness  ever   had   been  dreamed  or 

done; 

Among  dull  hearts  a  prophet  never  grew; 
The  nurse  of  full-grown  souls  is  solitude. 

The   old  world   is  effete;  there  man  with 

man 

Jostles,  and,  in  the  brawl  for  means  to  live, 
Life   is   trod    underfoot,  —  Life,   the   one 

block 
Of  marble  that 's  vouchsafed  wherefrom  to 

carve 
Our  great  thoughts,  white  and  godlike,  to 

shine  down  (a 

The  future,  Life,  the  irredeemable  block, 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


419 


Which  one  o'er-hasty  chisel-dint  oft  mars, 
Scanting  our  room  to  cut  the  features  out 
Of  our  full  hope,  so  forcing  us  to  crown 
With  a  mean   head  the  perfect   limbs,  or 

leave 

The  god's  face  glowing  o'er  a  satyr's  trunk, 
Failure's  brief  epitaph. 

Yes,  Europe's  world 
Reels  on  to  judgment;  there  the  common 

need, 

Losing  God's  sacred  use,  to  be  a  bond 
'Twixt  Me  and  Thee,  sets  each  one  scowl- 

ingly  7o 

O'er  his  own  selfish  hoard  at  bay;  no  state, 
Knit  strongly  with  eternal  fibres  up 
Of  all  men's  separate  and  united  weals, 
Self-poised  and   sole   as   stars,  yet  one  as 

light, 

Holds  up  a  shape  of  large  Humanity 
To  which  by  natural  instinct  every  man 
Pays  loyalty  exulting,  by  which  all 
Mould  their  own  lives,  and  feel  their  pulses 

filled 
With  the  red,  fiery   blood  of  the  general 

life, 
Making  them  mighty  in  peace,  as  now  in 

war  80 

They  are,   even  in  the   flush  of  victory, 

weak, 
Conquering   that    manhood   which   should 

them  subdue. 
And   what   gift   bring   I   to    this    untried 

world  ? 

Shall  the  same  tragedy  be  played  anew, 
And  the  same  lurid  curtain  drop  at  last 
On  one  dread  desolation,  one  fierce  crash 
Of  that  recoil  which  on  its  makers  God 
Lets  Ignorance  and  Sin  and  Hunger  make, 
Early  or   late  ?    Or   shall    that   common- 
wealth 

Whose  potent  unity  and  concentric  force 
Can  draw  these  scattered  joints  and  parts 

of  men  gt 

Into  a  whole  ideal  man  once  more, 
Which  sucks   not   from  its   limbs  the  life 

away, 

But  sends  it  flood-tide  and  creates  itself 
Over  again  in  every  citizen, 
Be   there   built   up  ?   For   me,  I  have  no 

choice ; 

I  might  turn  back  to  other  destinies, 
For  one  sincere  key  opes  all  Fortune's  doors ; 
But  whoso  answers  not  God's  earliest  call 
Forfeits  or  dulls  that  faculty  supreme      too 


m  to  his  genius 
Which  makes  the  wise  heart  certain  of  its 
ends. 

Here  am  I;  for  what  end  God  knows,  not  I; 
Westward  still  points  the  inexorable  soul: 
Here  am  I,  with  no  friend  but  the  sad  sea, 
The  beating  heart  of  this  great  enterprise, 
Which,  without  me,  would  stiffen  in  swift 

death; 
This  have  I  mused  on,  since  mine  eye  could 

first  108 

Among  the  stars  distinguish  and  with  joy 
Rest  on  that  God-fed  Pharos  of  the  north, 
On  some  blue  promontory  of  heaven  lighted 
That  juts  far  out  into  the  upper  sea; 
To  this  one  hope  my  heart  hath  clung  for 

years, 

As  would  a  foundling  to  the  talisman 
Hung   round   his  neck  by  hands  he  knew 

not  whose; 

A  poor,  vile  thing  and  dross  to  all  beside, 
Yet  he  therein  can  feel  a  virtue  left 
By  the  sad  pressure  of  a  mother's  hand, 
And  unto  him  it  still  is  tremulous  n9 

With  palpitating  haste  and  wet  with  tears, 
The  key  to  him  of  hope  and  humanness, 
The  coarse  shell  of  life's  pearl,  Expectancy- 
This  hope  hath   been  to  me  for  love  anc* 

fame, 

Hath  made  me  wholly  lonely  on  the  earth, 
Building  me  up  as  in  a  thick-ribbed  tower, 
Wherewith  enwalled  my  watching  spirit 

burned, 

Conquering  its  little  island  from  the  Dark, 
Sole  as  a  scholar's  lamp,  and  heard  men's 

steps, 

In  the  far  hurry  of  the  outward  world, 
Pass  dimly  forth  and  back,  sounds  heard  in 

dream.  130 

As  Ganymede  by  the  eagle  was  snatched 

ap 

From  the  gross  sod  to  be  Jove's  cup-bearer, 
So  was  I  lifted  by  my  great  design: 
And  who  hath  trod  Olympus,  from  his  eye 
Fades  not  that  broader  outlook  of  the  gods; 
His    life's   low    valleys   overbrow   earth's 

clouds, 

And  that  Olympian  spectre  of  the  past 
Looms  towering  up  in  sovereign  memory, 
Beckoning  his  soul  from  meaner  heights  of 

doom. 
Had  but   the   shadow  of   the  Thunderer's 

bird,  140 

Flashing  athwart  my  spirit,  made  of  me 


420 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


A  swift-betraying  vision's  Ganymede, 
Yet  to  have  greatly  dreamed  precludes  low 
ends; 

On  such  a  base  great  futures  are  built  up, 
And  aspiration,  though  not  put  in  act, 
Comes  back  to  ask  its  plighted  troth  again, 
Still  watches  round   its  grave   the   unlaid 

ghost 

Of  a  dead  virtue,  and  makes  other  hopes, 
Save   that  implacable  one,  seem  thin  and 

bleak  150 

As  shadows  of  bare  trees  upon  the  snow, 
Bound    freezing   there   by   the    unpitying 


While  other  youths  perplexed  their  mando- 
lins, 

Praying  that  Thetis  would  her  fingers  twine 
In  the  loose  glories  of  her  lover's  hair, 
And  wile  another  kiss  to  keep  back  day, 
I,  stretched  beneath   the   many-centuried 

shade 

Of  some  writhed  oak,  the  wood's  Laocoon, 
Did  of  my  hope  a  dryad  mistress  make, 
Whom  I  would  woo  to  meet  me  privily,  160 
Or  underneath  the  stars,  or  when  the  moon 
Flecked  all  the  forest  floor  with  scattered 
pearls. 

0  days  whose  memory  tames  to  fawning 

down 
The  surly  fell  of  Ocean's  bristled  neck  I 

1  know  not  when  this  hope  enthralled  me 

first, 

But  from  my  boyhood  up  I  loved  to  hear 
The  tall  pine-forests  of  the  Apennine 
Murmur  their  hoary  legends  of  the  sea, 
Which  hearing,  I  in  vision  clear  beheld 
The    sudden    dark    of    tropic    night    shut 

down  170 

O'er   the   huge   whisper  of  great  watery 

wastes, 

The  while  a  pair  of  herons  trailingly 
Flapped  inland,  where  some    league-wide 

river  hurled 

The  yellow  spoil  of  unconjectured  realms 
Far  through  a  gulf's  green  silence,  never 

scarred 
By   any    but  the    North-wind's   hurrying 

keels. 
And  not  the  pines   alone  ;  all   sights   and 

sounds 

To  my  world-seeking  heart  paid  fealty, 
And  catered  for  it  as  the  Cretan  bees 


Brought  honey  to  the  baby  Jupiter,          jgc 
Who  in  his  soft  hand  crushed  a  violet, 
Godlike    i'oremusing   the   rough  thunder's 

Then  did  I  entertain  the  poet's  song, 
My  great  Idea's  guest,  and,  passing  o'er 
That  iron  bridge  the  Tuscan  built  to  hell, 
I  heard  Ulysses  tell  of  mountain-chains 
Whose  adamantine  links,  his  manacles, 
The  western  main  shook  growling,  and  still 

gnawed. 

I  brooded  on  the  wise  Athenian's  tale 
Of   happy  Atlantis,    and    heard   Bjorne's 

keel  ,9o 

Crunch   the  gray  pebbles   of  the  Vinland 

shore : 

I  listened,  musing,  to  the  prophecy 
Of  Nero's  tutor- victim ;  lo,  the  birds 
Sing  darkling,  conscious   of   the   climbing 

dawn. 

And  I  believed  the  poets;  it  is  they 
Who  utter  wisdom  from  the  central  deep, 
And,  listening  to  the  inner  flow  of  things, 
Speak  to  the  age  out  of  eternity. 

Ah  me  !  old  hermits  sought  for  solitude 
In  caves  and  desert  places  of  the  earth,  200 
Where  their  own  heart-beat  was  the  only 

stir 

Of  living  thing  that  comforted  the  year; 
But  the  bald  pillar-top  of  Simeon, 
In  midnight's  blankest  waste,  were  popu- 
lous, 

Matched  with  the  isolation  drear  and  deep 
Of  him  who  pines   among   the   swarm  of 

men, 

At  once  a  new  thought's   king    and  pris- 
oner, 

Feeling  the  truer  life  within  his  life, 
The  fountain  of  his  spirit's  prophecy, 
Sinking  away  and  wasting,  drop  by  drop,  210 
In  the  ungrateful  sands  of  sceptic  ears. 
He  in  the  palace-aisles  of  untrod  woods 
Doth    walk  a  king  ;    for  him  the  pent-up 

cell 

Widens  beyond  the  circles  of  the  stars, 
And  all  the  sceptred  spirits  of  the  past 
Come  thronging  in  to  greet  him  as  their 

peer; 

But  in  the  market-place's  glare  and  throng 
He  sits  apart,  an  exile,  and  his  brow 
Aches  with    the    mocking    memory  of  its 

crown. 

Yet  to  the  spirit  select  there  is  no  choice; 
He  cannot  say,  This  will  I  do,  or  that,     221 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


421 


For  the  cheap  means  putting  Heaven's  ends 

in  pawn, 
And  bartering  his  bleak  rocks,  the  freehold 

stern 

Of  destiny's  first-born,  for  smoother  fields 
That  yield  no  crop  of  self-denying  will; 
A  hand  is  stretched  to  him  from  out  the 

dark, 

Which  grasping  without  Question,  he  is  led 
Where  there  is  work  that  he  must  do  for 

God. 

The  trial  still  is  the  strength's  complement, 
And  the  uncertain,  dizzy  path  that  scales  230 
The  sheer  heights  of  supremest  purposes 
Is  steeper  to  the  angel  than  the  child. 
Chances  have  laws  as  fixed  as  planets  have, 
And  disappointment's  dry  and  bitter  root, 
Envy's  harsh  berries,  and  the  choking  pool 
Of  the  world's  scorn,  are  the  right  mother-   j 

milk 

To  the  tough  hearts  that  pioneer  their  kind,   j 
And  break   a   pathway  to  those  unknown   j 

realms 

That  in  the  earth's  broad  shadow  lie  en- 
thralled; 

Endurance  is  the  crowning  quality,  240 
And  patience  all  the  passion  of  great  hearts ; 
These  are  their  stay,  and  when  the  leaden 

world 
Sets   its   hard   face    against   their   fateful 

thought, 

And  brute  strength,  like  the  Gaulish  con- 
queror, 
Clangs  his  huge  glaive  down  in  the  other 

scale, 

The  inspired  soul  but  flings  bis  patience  in, 
And  slowly  that  outweighs  the  ponderous 

globe,  — 

One  faith  against  a  whole  earth's  unbelief, 
One  soul  against  the  flesh  of  all  mankind. 

Thus  ever  seems  it  when  my  soul  can  hear 
The  voice  that  errs  not;  then  my  triumph 

gleams,  251 

O'er   the   blank  ocean  beckoning,  and  all 

night 

My  heart  flies  on  before  me  as  I  sail; 
Far  on  I  see  my  lifelong  enterprise, 
That   rose  like  Ganges  'mid  the  freezing 

snows 
Of  a  world's  solitude,  sweep   broadening 

down. 

And,  gathering  to  itself  a  thousand  streams, 
Grow  sacred  ere  it  mingle  with  the  sea; 
I  see  the  ungated  wall  of  chaos  old, 


With  blocks  Cyclopean  hewn  of  solid  night, 
Fade  like  a  wreath  of  unreturning  mist  x6i 
Before  the  irreversible  feet  of  light;  — 
And  lo,  with  what  clear  omen  in  the  east 
On  day's  gray  threshold  stands  the  eager 

dawn, 

Like  young  Leander  rosy  from  the  sea 
Glowing  at  Hero's  lattice  ! 

One  day  more 
These    muttering    shoalbrains    leave    the 

helm  to  me: 
God,    let   me    not   in    their'  dull   ooze   be 

stranded; 
Let    not    this    one   frail    bark,  to   hollow 

which 

I  have  dug  out  the  pith  and  sinewy  heart 
Of  my  aspiring  life's  fair  trunk,  be  so      271 
Cast  up  to  warp  and  blacken  in  the  sun, 
Just  as  the  opposing  wind  'gins  whistle  off 
His  cheek-swollen  pack,  and  from  the  lean- 
ing mast 
Fortune's  full  sail  strains  forward  ! 

One  poor  day  !  — 

Remember  whose  and  not  how  short  it  is  ! 
It  is  God's  day,  it  is  Columbus's. 
A   lavish  day !    One   day,  with    life  and 
heart,  278 

Is  more  than  time  enough  to  find  a  world. 
1844.  (1847.) » 


THE    PRESENT   CRISIS3 

WHEN  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through 
the  broad  earth's  aching  breast 

Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling 
on  from  east  to  west, 


being 


1  Lowell's  Poems,  Second  Series,  dated   1848,  was 
really  published  in  1847. 

2  Written  when  the  annexation  of  Texas 
discussed,  but  universal  in  its  application. 

For  twenty  years  the  solemn  monitory  music  of  this 
poem  never  ceased  to  reecho  in  public  halls.  In  the 
Lowell  Memorial  Address  which  George  William  Curtis 
dalivered  before  the  Brooklyn  Institute,  February  22, 
1892,  he  said  in  his  heightened  way  of  some  passages 
of 'The  Present  Crisis  :'  'Wendell  Phillips  winged 
with  their  music  and  tipped  with  their  flame  the  dart 
of  his  fervid  appeal  and  manly  scorn.  As  he  quoted 
them  with  suppressed  emotion  in  his  low,  melodious, 
penetrating  voice,  the  white  plume  of  the  resistless 
Navarre  of  eloquence  gained  a  loftier  grace,  that  re- 
lentless sword  of  invective  a  more  flashing  edge.'  And 
the  stanza  of  '  The  Present  Crisis'  beginning  '  For  hu- 
manity sweeps  onward  '  was  made  by  Sumner  the  text 
and  motif  of  that  famous  '  Crime  against  Speech  '  ora- 
tion that  provoked  the  assault  of  Preston  Brooks 
(Greenalet's  Lowell,  pp.  79,  80.) 


422 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels 
the  soul  within  him  climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the 
energy  sublime 

Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the 
thorny  stem  of  Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots 
the  instantaneous  tliroe, 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings 
earth's  systems  to  and  fro; 

At  the  birth  of  .each  new  Era,  with  a  recog- 
nizing start, 

Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing 
with  mute  lips  apart, 

And  glad  Truth's  yet  mightier  man-child 
leaps  beneath  the  Future's  heart.  I0 

So  the  Evil's  triumph  sendeth,  with  a  ter- 
ror and  a  chill, 

Under  continent  to  continent,  the  sense  of 
coming  ill, 

A.nd  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels 
his  sympathies  with  God 

In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to  be 
drunk  up  by  the  sod, 

Till  a  corpse  crawls  round  unburied,  delv- 
ing in  the  nobler  clod. 

For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an  in- 
stinct bears  along, 

Hound  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift 
flash  of  right  or  wrong; 

Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet  Hu- 
manity's vast  frame 

Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres  feels  the 
gush  of  joy  or  shame;  — 

In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest 
have  equal  claim.  20 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes  the 

moment  to  decide, 
In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for 

the  good  or  evil  side; 
Some   great  cause,   God's    new   Messiah, 

offering  each  the  bloom  or  blight, 
Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the 

sheep  upon  the  right, 
And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that 

darkness  and  that  light. 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  on  whose 

party  thou  shalt  stand, 
Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals  shakes 

the  dust  against  our  land  ? 


Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  't  is 

Truth  alone  is  strong, 
And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see 

around  her  throng 
Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield 

her  from  all  wrong.  30 

Backward  look   across   the   ages   and  the 

beacon-moments  see, 
That,  like  peaks  of  some  sunk  continent, 

jut  through  Oblivion's  sea; 
Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low 


foreboding  cry 
ose   Crises,   God's 


Of  those  Crises,  God's  stern  winnowers, 
from  whose  feet  earth's  chaff  must 

fly; 

Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the 
judgment  hath  passed  by. 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger;  history's 
pages  but  record 

One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt 
old  systems  and  the  Word; 

Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  Wrong  for- 
ever on  the  throne,  — 

Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  be- 
hind the  dim  unknown, 

Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping 
watch  above  his  own.  4o 

We  see  dimly  hi  the  Present  what  is  small 

and  what  is  great, 
Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn 

the  iron  helm  of  fate, 
But  the    soul  is   still   oracular;   amid  the 

market's  din, 
List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the 

Delphic  cave  within,  — 
'  They  enslave  their  children's  children  who 

make  compromise  with  sin.' 

Slavery,  the  earth-born  Cyclops,  fellest  of 

the  giant  brood, 
Sons  of  brutish   Force  and  Darkness,  who 

have  drenched  the  earth  with  blood, 
Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded 

by  our  purer  day, 
Gropes   in    yet    unblasted  regions  for  his 

miserable  prey;  — 
Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our 

helpless  children  play  ?  50 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble  when  we 
share  her  wretched  crust, 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


423 


Ere  her  cause   bring  fame  and .  profit,  and 

't  is  prosperous  to  be  just; 
Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while  the 

coward  stands  aside, 
Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord 

is  crucified, 
And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith 

they  had  denied. 

Count    me  o'er  earth's    chosen    heroes, — 

they  were  souls  that  stood  alone, 
While  the   men   they  agonized  for  hurled 

the  contumelious  stone, 
Stood  serene,  and  down  the  future  saw  the 

golden  beam  incline 
To  the  side  of  perfect  justice,  mastered  by 

their  faith  divine, 
By  one  man's  plain  truth  to  manhood  and 

to  God's  supreme  design.  60 

By  the  light   of  burning   heretics  Christ's 

bleeding  feet  I  track, 
Toiling  up   new    Calvaries   ever  with  the 

cross  that  turns  not  back, 
And  these  mounts  of  anguish  number  how 

each  generation  learned 
One  new  word  of  that  grand  Credo  which 

in  prophet-hearts  hath  burned 
Since  the   first   man  stood  God-conquered 

with  his  face  to  heaven  upturned. 

For  Humanity  sweeps  onward:  where  to- 
day the  martyr  stands, 

On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the 
silver  in  his  hands; 

Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready  and  the 
crackling  fagots  burn, 

While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in 
silent  awe  return 

To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  His- 
tory's golden  urn.  ?0 

'T  is  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle 

slaves 
Of '  a   legendary  virtue    carved   upon   our 

father's  graves, 
Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the 

present  light  a  crime;  — 
Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards, 

steered  by  men  behind  their  time  ? 
Turn  those  tracks   toward  Past  or  Future, 

that  make  Plymouth  Rock  sublime? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stalwart 
old  iconoclasts, 


Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  vir- 
tue was  the  Past's; 

But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood, 
thinking  that  hath  made  us  free, 

Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while 
our  tender  spirits  flee 

The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse  which 
drove  them  across  the  sea.  &o 

They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain  them ; 

we  are  traitors  to  our  sires, 
Smothering  in  their  holy  ashes  Freedom's 

new-lit  altar-fires; 
Shall  we   make    their   creed    our    jailer  ? 

Shall  we,  in  our  haste  to  slay, 
From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets  steal 

the  funeral  lamps  away 
To  light  up   the  martyr-fagots  round  the 

prophets  of  to-day  ? 

New    occasions    teach    new  duties;  Time 

makes  ancient  good  uncouth ; 
They  must  upward    still,  and  onward,  who 

would  keep  abreast  of  Truth ; 
Lo,  before  us    gleam  her   camp-fires  !  we 

ourselves  must  Pilgrims  be, 
Launch   our   Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly 

through  the  desperate  winter  sea, 
Nor  attempt  the   Future's  portal  with  the 

Past's  blood-rusted  key.  90 

December,  1844.  1845. 


A  CONTRAST 

THY  love  thou  sentest  oft  to  me, 
And  still  as  oft  I  thrust  it  back; 

Thy  messengers  I  could  not  see 
In  those  who  everything  did  lack, 
The  poor,  the  outcast  and  the  black. 

Pride  held  his  hand  before  mine  eyes, 
The  world  with   flattery    stuffed   mine 

ears; 
I  looked  to  see  a  monarch's  guise, 

Nor  dreamed  thy  love  would  knock  for 

years, 
Poor,  naked,  fettered,  full  of  tears. 

Yet,  when  I  sent  my  love  to  thee, 
Thou  with  a  smile  didst  take  it  in, 

And  entertain'dst  it  royally, 

Though  grimed  with  earth,,  with  hunger 

thin, 
And  leprous  with  the  taint  of  sin. 


424 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Now  every  day  thy  love  I  meet, 
As«o'er  the  earth  it  wanders  wide, 

With  weary  step  and  bleeding  feet, 
Still  knocking  at  the  heart  of  pride 
And  offering  grace,  though  still  denied. 
1845. 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE  1 

WHAT  visionary  tints  the  year  puts  on, 
When   falling   leaves  falter   through   mo- 
tionless air 

Or  humbly  cling  and  shiver  to  be  gone  ! 
How  shimmer  the  low  flats  and  pastures 

bare, 

As  with  her  nectar  Hebe  Autumn  fills 
The  bowl  between  me  and  those  distant 

hills, 

And  smiles  and  shakes  abroad  her  misty, 
tremulous  hair  ! 

No  more  the  landscape  holds  its  wealth 

apart, 
Making  me  poorer  in  my  poverty, 

But   mingles   with   my    senses   and   my 
heart;  10 

My  own  projected  spirit  seems  to  me 
In  her  own  reverie  the  world  to  steep; 
'T  is  she  that  waves  to  sympathetic  sleep, 
Moving,  as  she  is  moved,  each  field  and  hill 
and  tree. 

How   fuse  and   mix,   with   what   unfelt 

degrees, 
Clasped  by  the  faint  horizon's  languid  arms, 

Each  into  each,  the  hazy  distances  ! 
The    softened    season    all    the    landscape 

charms ; 

Those  hills,  my  native  village  that  embay, 
In  waves  of  dreamier  purple  roll  away,  20 
And  floating  in  mirage  seem  all  the  glim- 
mering farms. 

Far  distant  sounds  the  hidden  chickadee 
Close  at  my  side;  far  distant   sound   the 
leaves ; 

1  The  reader  familiar  with  Lowell's  life  will  readily 
recognize  the  local  references  which  occur  in  this 
poem.  To  others  it  may  be  worth  while  to  point  out 
that  the  village  smithy  is  the  came  as  that  commemo- 
rated by  Longfellow,  that  Allston  lived  in  the  section 
of  Cambridge  known  as  Cambridgeport,  that  some  of 
the  old  willows  at  the  causey's  end  still  stand,  and  that 
the  group  is  the  one  which  gave  the  name  to  Under  the 
Willows.  (Cambridge  Edition  of  Lowell's  Poetical 
Works.) 


The  fields  seem  fields  of  dream,  where 

Memory 
Wanders  like  gleaning  Ruth;  and  as  the 

sheaves 

Of  wheat  and  barley  wavered  in  the  eye 
Of  Boaz  as  the  maiden's  glow  went  by, 
So  tremble  and  seem  remote  all  things  the 
sense  receives. 

The    cock's   shrill   trump    that   tells   of 

scattered  corn, 

Passed    breezily    on   by    all   his    flapping 

mates,  30 

Faint  and  more  faint,  from  barn  to  barn 

is  borne, 
Southward,     perhaps    to    far     Magellan's 

Straits; 

Dimly  I  catch  the  throb  of  distant  flails; 
Silently  overhead  the  hen-hawk  sails, 
With  watchful,  measuring  eye,  and  for  his 
quarry  waits. 

The  sobered  robin,  hunger-silent  now, 
Seeks  cedar-berries  blue,  his  autumn  cheer; 
The  chipmunk,  on  the  shingly  shagbaik's 

bough 
Now  saws,  now  lists  with  downward  eye 

and  ear, 

Then  drops  his  nut,  and,  cheeping,  with 
a  bound  40 

Wliisks  to  his  winding  fastness  under- 
ground; 

The   clouds   like    swans    drift    down  the 
streaming  atmosphere. 

O'er  yon  bare  knoll  the  pointed  cedar 

shadows 
Drowse    on   the    crisp,   gray    moss ;    the 

ploughman's  call 

Creeps  faint  as  smoke  from  black,  fresh- 
furrowed  meadows; 
The  single  crow  a  single  caw  lets  fall; 
And  all  around  me  every  bush  and  tree 
Says   Autumn  's  here,  and  Winter  soon 

will  be, 

Who  snows  his  soft,  white  sleep  and  silence 
over  all. 

The   birch,   most    shy   and   ladylike   of 
trees,  5° 

Her  poverty,  as  best  she  may,  retrieves, 

And  hints  at  her  foregone  gentilities 
With  some  saved  relics  of  her  wealth  of 

leaves ; 
The  swamp-oak,  with  his  royal  purple  on, 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


425 


Glares  red  as  blood  across  the  sinking 

sun, 

As  one  who  proudlier  to  a  falling  fortune 
cleaves. 

He  looks  a  sachem,  in  red  blanket  wrapt, 
Who,  'mid  some  council  of  the  sad-garbed 

whites, 
Erect  and  stern,  in  his  own   memories 

lapt, 

With     distant     eye     broods     over     other 

sights,  60 

Sees  the  hushed  wood  the  city's  flare  re- 

place, 
The  wounded  turf  heal  o'er  the  railway's 

trace, 

And  roams   the    savage    Past   of   his   un- 
dwindled  rights. 

The  red-oak,  softer-grained,  yields  all  for 

lost, 
And,  with  his  crumpled  foliage  stiff  and 

dry, 
After  the  first  betrayal  of  the  frost, 


Rebuffs  the  kiss  of  the  relenting  sky; 
ches 
gold, 


The  chestnuts,  lavish  of  their 


y; 
long- 


hid 


To  the  faint  Summer,  beggared  now  and 

old, 

Pour  back  the  sunshine  hoarded  'neath  her 
favoring  eye.  70 

The  ash  her  purple  drops  forgivingly 
And  sadly,  breaking  not  the  general  hush; 
The  maple-swamps   glow  like  a  sunset 

sea, 

Each  leaf  a  ripple  with  its  separate  flush; 
All   round  the  wood's  edge  creeps   the 

skirting  blaze 

Of  bushes  low,  as  when,  on  cloudy  days, 
Ere  the  rain  fall,  the  cautious  farmer  burns 
his  brush. 

O'er  yon  low  wall,  which  guards  one  un- 

kempt zone, 
Where   vines  and    weeds   and    scrub-oaks 

intertwine 

Safe  from  the  plough,  whose  rough,  dis- 

cordant stone  go 

Is  massed  to  one  soft  gray  by  lichens  fine, 

The  tangled  blackberry,  crossed  and  re- 

crossed,  weaves 

A  prickly  network  of  ensanguined  leaves  ; 
Hard  by,  with  coral  beads,  the  prim  black- 
alders  shine. 


Pillaring  with  flame  this  crumbling  bound- 
ary, 

Whose  loose  blocks  topple  'neath  the  plough- 
boy's  foot, 
Who,  with  each  sense  shut  fast  except 

the  eye, 
Creeps  close  and  scares  the  jay  he  hoped  to 

shoot, 
The  woodbine  up  the  elm's  straight  stem 

aspires, 

Coiling     it,     harmless,    with    autumnal 
fires ;  90 

In   the   ivy's  paler  blaze  the  martyr  oak 
stands  mute. 

Below,  the  Charles,  a  stripe  of  nether 

sky, 

Now  hid  by  rounded  apple-trees  between, 
Whose  gaps  the   misplaced  sail  sweeps 

bellying  by, 
Now  flickering  golden  through  a  woodland 

screen, 

Then  spreading  out,  at  his  next  turn  be- 
yond, 

A  silver  circle  like  an  inland  pond  — 
Slips   seaward    silently    through    marshes 
purple  and  green. 

Dear  marshes  !  vain  to  him  the  gift  of 

sight 

Who    cannot     in    their     various    incomes 

share,  100 

From  every  season  drawn,  of  shade  and 

light, 
Who  sees  in  them  but  levels  brown  and 

bare; 
Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters 

free 

On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 
For  Nature  with  cheap  means  still  works 
her  wonders  rare. 

In  Spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of 

green, 

O'er  which  the  light  winds  run  with  glim- 
mering feet: 
Here,  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek 

imseen, 
There,  darker  growths  o'er  hidden  ditches 

meet; 

And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blos- 
soms crowd,  no 
As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next  breath 
to  fleet. 


426 


CHIEF  AMERICAN  POETS 


All  round,  upon  the  river's  slippery  edge, 
Witching  to  deeper  calm  the  drowsy  tide, 
Whispers  and  leans  the  breeze-entangling 

sedge ; 
Through    emerald    glooms   the    lingering 

waters  slide, 
Or,  sometimes  wavering,  throw  back  the 

sun, 

And  the  stiff  banks  in  eddies  melt  and  run 
Of   dimpling   light,  ahd  with  the  current 
seem  to  glide. 

In  Summer  't  is  a  blithesome  sight  to 

see,  120 

As,  step  by  step,  with  measured  swing,  they 

pass, 
The  wide-ranked  mowers  wading  to  the 

knee, 
Their  sharp   scythes  panting  through  the 

wiry  grass; 
Then,  stretched  beneath  a  rick's  shade  in 

a  ring, 
Their  nooning  take,  while  one  begins  to 

sing 

A  stave  that  droops  and    dies    'neath  the 
close  sky  of  brass. 

Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the  bobo- 
link, 

Remembering  duty,  in  mid-quaver  stops 
Just  ere  he  sweeps  o'er  rapture's  tremu- 
lous brink, 

And  'twixt  the   winrows  most  demurely 

drops,  130 

A  decorous  bird  of  business,  who  provides 

For  his   brown  mate  and  fledglings  six 

besides, 

And  looks  from  right  to  left,  a  farmer  'mid 
his  crops. 

Another  change  subdues  them  in  the  Fall, 
But  saddens  not;  they  still  show  merrier 

tints, 

Though  sober  russet  seems  to  cover  all ; 
When  the  first  sunshine  through  their  dew- 
drops  glints, 
Look  how  the  yellow  clearness,  streamed 

across, 
Redeems  with  rarer  hues   the   season's 

loss, 

As  Dawn's  feet  there  had  touched  and  left 
their  rosy  prints.  140 

Or  come  when  sunset  gives  its  freshened 
zest, 


Lean  o'er  the   bridge  and   let   the   ruddy 

thrill, 
While  the  shorn  sun  swells  down  the  hazy 

west, 
Glow  opposite ;  —  the  marshes  drink  their 

fill 
And  swoon  with  purple  veins,  then  slowly 

fade 
Through   pink   to     brown,   as   eastward 

moves  the  shade, 

Lengthening  with    stealthy    creep,  of    Si- 
mond's  darkening  hill. 


Later,  and  yet  ere  Winter  wholly  shuts, 
Ere  through  the  first  dry  snow  the  runner 

grates, 

And    the    loath    cart-wheel  screams    in 
slippery  ruts,  J5o 

While  firmer  ice  the  eager  boy  awaits, 
Trying  each  buckle  and  strap  beside  the 

fire, 

And  until  bedtime  plays  with  his  desire, 
Twenty  times  putting  on  and  off  his  new- 
bought  skates;  — 

Then,  every  morn,  the  river's  banks  shine 

bright 
With  smooth  plate-armor,  treacherous  and 

frail, 
By  the  frost's  clinking  hammers  forged 

at  night, 

'Gainst  which  the  lances  of  the  sun  prevail, 
Giving  a  pretty  emblem  of  the  day 
When  guiltier  arms  in  light  shall  melt 
away,  160 

And  states  shall  move  free-limbed,  loosed 
from  war's  cramping  mail. 

And    now  those  waterfalls    the  ebbing 

river 

Twice  every  day  creates  on  either  side 
Tinkle,  as   through   their   fresh-sparred 

grots  they  shiver 

In  grass-arched  channels  to  the  sun  denied ; 
High   flaps    in  sparkling   blue  the  far- 
heard  crow, 

The  silvered  flats  gleam  frostily  below, 
Suddenly  drops  the  gull  and  breaks   the 
glassy  tide. 

But  crowned  in  turn   by  vying  seasons 

three, 

Their  winter  halo  hath  a  fuller  ring;        170 
This  glory  seems  to  rest  immovably,  — 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


427 


The  others  were  too  fleet  and  vanishing; 
When  the  hid  tide  is  at  its  highest  flow, 
O'er   marsh   and  stream  one  breathless 

trance  of  snow 

With  brooding    fulness    awes    and  hushes 
everything. 

The  sunshine  seems  blown  off  by  the  bleak 

wind, 
As  pale  as  formal  candles  lit  by  day; 

Gropes  to   the  sea  the  river  dumb  and 

blind; 
The    brown   ricks,    snow-thatched  by  the 

storm  in  play, 

Show  pearly  breakers  combing  o'er  their 

lee,  180 

White  crests  as  of  some  just  enchanted 

sea, 

Checked  in  their  maddest  leap  and  hanging 
poised  midway. 

But  when   the  eastern  blow,  with   rain 

aslant, 
From  mid-sea's  prairies  green  and  rolling 

plains 
Drives  in  his  wallowing  herds  of  billows 

gaunt, 
And  the  roused  Charles  remembers  in  his 

veins 
Old  Ocean's  blood  and  snaps  his  gyves  of 

frost, 
That  tyrannous   silence  on  the  shores  is 

tost 

In  dreary  wreck,  and  crumbling  desolation 
reigns. 

Edgewise  or  flat,  in  Druid-like  device,  too 
With    leaden   pools    between     or    gullies 

bare, 
The  blocks  lie  strewn,  a  bleak  Stonehenge 

of  ice; 

No  life,  no  sound,  to  break  the  grim  de- 
spair, 
Save  sullen  plunge,  as  through  the  sedges 

stiff 

Down    crackles    riverward    some   thaw- 
sapped  cliff, 

Or  when   the   close-wedged   fields   of   ice 
crunch  here  and  there. 

But  let  me  turn    from   fancy -pictured 

Scenes 

To  that  whose  pastoral  calm  before  me  lies: 
Here    nothing     harsh   or  rugged  inter- 


The  early  evening  with  her  misty  dyes    200 
Smooths  off  the   ravelled   edges  of  the 

nigh, 

Relieves  the  distant  with  her  cooler  sky, 
And  tones  the  landscape  down,  and  soothes  - 
the  wearied  eyes. 

There  gleams  my  native  village,  dear  to 

me, 
Though   higher  change's   waves  each  day 

are  seen, 

Whelming  fields  famed  in  boyhood's  his- 
tory, 
Sanding     with      houses      the     diminished 

green; 
There,  in  red  brick,  which  softening  time 

defies, 

Stand  square  and   stiff  the  Muses'  fac- 
tories ;  — 

How  with  my  life   knit   up   is  every  well- 
known  scene !  210 

Flow  on,  dear  river  !  not  alone  you  flow 
To  outward  sight,  and  through  your  marshes 

wind; 

Fed   from   the  mystic  springs   of  long- 
ago, 
Your  twin  flows  silent  through  my  world 

of  mind: 1 
Grow  dim,  dear  marshes,  in  the  evening's 

gray  ! 

Before  my  inner  sight  ye  stretch  away, 
And  will  forever,  though  these  fleshly  eyes 
grow  blind. 

Beyond    the    hillock's     house-bespotted 

swell, 
Where  Gothic  chapels  house  the  horse  and 


Where   quiet  cits    in    Grecian    temples 
dwell,  220 

Where  Coptic  tombs  resound  with   prayer 
and  praise, 

Where  dust  and  mud  the  equal  year  di- 
vide, 

There  gentle  Allston  lived,  and  wrought, 

and  died, 

Transfiguring  street  and  shop  with  his  illu- 
mined gaze. 

Virgilium  vidi  tantum,  —  I  have  seen 
But  as  a  boy,  who  looks  alike  on  all, 

That  misty  hair,   that   fine   Undine-like 

mien, 
1  Compare  Emerson's  '  Two  Rivers,'  p.  87. 


428 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Tremulous   as  down   to   feeling's  faintest 

call;  — 
Ah,  dear  old  homestead  !  count  it  to  thy 

fame 
That  thither    many     times     the     Painter 

came; —  230 

One  elm  yet  bears  his  name,  a  feathery  tree 

and  tall. 

Swiftly  the  present  fades   in   memory's 

flow, — 
y  sure  possession  is  the  past; 
The  village  blacksmith  died  a  month  ago, 
And  dim  to  me  the  forge's  roaring  blast; 
Soon  fire-new  media?vals  we  shall  see 
Oust  the  black  smithy  from  its  chestnut- 
tree, 

And  that  hewn  down,  perhaps,  the  beehive 
green  and  vast. L 

How  many  times,  prouder  than  king  on 

throne, 

Loosed  from  the  village  school-dame's  A's 
and  B's,  240 

Panting  have  I  the  creaky  bellows  blown, 
And   watched   the  pent   volcano's  red   in- 
crease, 
Then  paused  to  see  the  ponderous  sledge, 

brought  down 

By  that  hard  arm  voluminous  and  brown, 
From  the  white  iron  swarm  its  golden  van- 
ishing bees. 

Dear  native  town  !  whose  choking  elms 

each  year 
With  eddying  dust  before  their  time  turn 

gray* 

Pining  for  rain,  —  to  me  thy  dust  is  dear ; 
It  glorifies  the  eve  of  summer  day, 

And  when  the  westering  sun  half  sunken 

burns,  250 

The   mote-thick   air  to  deepest   orange 

turns, 

The    westward    horseman    rides    through 
clouds  of  gold  away, 

So  palpable,  I  've  seen  those  unshorn  few, 
The  six  old  willows  at  the  causey's  end 
(Such  trees  Paul  Potter  never  dreamed 

nor  drew), 

Through   this   dry   mist   their   checkering 
shadows  send, 

1  The  tree  wag  out;  down  by  the  city  authorities  in 
1876.  See  the  note  on  Longfellow's  'Village  Black- 
smith,' p.  10a 


Striped,    here  and   there,  with   many   a 
long-drawn  thread, 

Where  streamed  through  leafy  chinks  the 

trembling  red, 

Past  which,  in  one  bright  trail,  the  hang- 
bird's  flashes  blend. 

Yes,  dearer  far  thy   dust  than  all  that 
e'er,  260 

Beneath  the  awarded  crown  of  victory, 

Gilded  the  blown  Olympic  charioteer; 
Though  lightly  prized  the  ribboned  parch- 
ments three, 

Yet  collegisse  juvat,  I  am  glad 
That  here   what   colleging  was  mine  I 

had, — 

It  linked  another  tie,  dear  native  town,  with 
thee! 

Nearer  art  thou  than  simply  native  earth, 
My  dust  with  thine  concedes  a  deeper  tie ; 
A  closer  claim  thy  soil   may  well  put 

forth, 

Something  of  kindred   more  than  sympa- 
thy; 27o 
For  in  thy  bounds  I  reverently  laid  away 
That  blinding  anguish  of  forsaken  clay, 
That  title  I  seemed  to  have  in  earth  and 
sea  and  sky, 

That  portion  of  my  life  more  choice  to 

me 
(Though  brief,  yet  in  itself  so  round  and 

whole) 

Than  all  the  imperfect  residue  can  be;  — 
The  Artist  saw  his  statue  of  the  soul 
Was    perfect;    so,   with    one    regretful 

stroke, 

The  earthen  model  into  fragments  broke, 

And  without  her  the  impoverished  seasons 

roll.  280 

1847.  1847. 


HEBE 

I  SAW  the  twinkle  of  white  feet, 
I  saw  the  flash  of  robes  descending; 

Before  her  ran  an  influence  fleet, 
That  bowed  my  heart  like  barley  bending 

As,  in  bare  fields,  the  searching  bees 
Pilot  to  blooms  beyond  our  finding, 

It  led  me  on,  by  sweet  degrees 
Joy's  simple  honey-cells  unbinding. 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


429 


Those   Graces    were  that   seemed  grim 

Fates; 
With  nearer  love  the  sky  leaned  o'er  me; 

The  long-sought  Secret's  golden  gates 
On  musical  hinges  swung  before  me. 

I  saw  the  brimmed  bowl  in  her  grasp 
Thrilling  with  godhood ;  like  a  lover 

I  sprang  the  proffered  life  to  clasp;  — 
The  beaker  fell;  the  luck  was  over. 

The  Earth  has  drunk  the  vintage  up; 
What  boots  it  patch  the  goblet's  splinters  ? 

Can  Summer  fill  the  icy  cup, 
Whose  treacherous  crystal  is  but  Winter's  ? 

O  spendthrift  haste  !  await  the  Gods; 
The  nectar  crowns  the  lips  of  Patience; 

Haste  scatters  on  unthankful  sods 
The  immortal  gift  in  vain  libations. 

Coy  Hebe  flies  from  those  that  woo, 
And   shuns   the   hands   would   seize   upon 

her; 

Follow  thy  life,  and  she  will  sue 
To  pour  for  thee  the  cup  of  honor. 

1847. 

THE  CHANGELING1 

I  HAD  a  little  daughter, 

And  she  was  given  to  me 
To  lead  me  gently  backward 

To  the  Heavenly  Father's  knee, 
That  I,  by  the  force  of  nature, 

Might  in  some  dim  wise  divine 
The  depth  of  his  infinite  patience 

To  this  wayward  soul  of  mine. 

I  know  not  how  others  saw  her, 

But  to  me  she  was  wholly  fair,  10 

And  the   light   of   the   heaven    she    came 
from 

Still  lingered  and  gleamed  in  her  hair; 
For  it  was  as  wavy  and  golden, 

And  as  many  changes  took, 
As  the  shadows  of  sun-gilt  ripples 

On  the  yellow  bed  of  a  brook. 

To  what  can  I  liken  her  smiling 
Upon  me,  her  kneeling  lover, 

1  Lowell's  first  child,  Blanche,  was  born  December 
31,  1845,  and  died  March  19,  1847.  The  sorrow  of  her 
loss  was  softened  by  the  birth  of  a  second  daughter  in 
the  autumn  of  1847.  See  '  The  First  Snow-Fall.' 


How  it  leaped  from  her  lips  to  her  eye- 
lids, 

And  dimpled  her  wholly  over,  20 

Till  her  outstretched  hands  smiled  also, 

And  I  almost  seemed  to  see 
The  very  heart  of  her  mother 

Sending  sun  through  her  veins  to  me  ! 

She  had    been  with  us   scarce   a  twelve- 
month, 

And  it  hardly  seemed  a  day, 
When  a  troop  of  wandering  angels 

Stole  my  little  daughter  away ; 
Or  perhaps  those  heavenly  Zingari 

But  loosed  the  hampering  strings,          3o 
And   when    they   had    opened   her    cage- 
door, 

My  little  bird  used  her  wings. 

But  they  left  in  her  stead  a  changeling, 

A  little  angel  child, 
That  seems  like  her  bud  in  full  blossom, 

And  smiles  as  she  never  smiled: 
When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  see  it 

Where  she  always  used  to  lie, 
And  I  feel  as  weak  as  a  violet 

Alone  'neath  the  awful  sky.  4o 

As  weak,  yet  as  trustful  also; 

For  the  whole  year  long  I  see 
All  the  wonders  of  faithful  Nature 

Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me ; 
Winds     wander,    and    dews    drip    earth- 
ward, 

Rain  falls,  suns  rise  and  set, 
Earth  whirls,  and  all  but  to  prosper 

A  poor  little  violet. 

This  child  is  not  mine  as  the  first  was, 

I  cannot  sing  it  to  rest,  50 

I  cannot  lift  it  up  fatherly 

And  bliss  it  upon  my  breast: 
Yet  it  lies  in  my  little  one's  cradle 

And  sits  in  my  little  one's  chair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she  's  gone  to 

Transfigures  its  golden  hair. 
1847.  1847. 


SHE    CAME   AND   WENT 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 


43° 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 
The  blue  dome's  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heaven ;  - 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 

Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent; 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

Oh,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 

And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 
One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 


>ne  gusn  or  ligl 
Only  to  think 


she  came  and  went. 


(1849.) 


'I  THOUGHT  OUR  LOVE  AT 
FULL,  BUT  I  DID  ERR' 

I  THOUGHT  our  love  at  full,  but  I  did  err; 
Joy's   wreath   drooped   o'er  mine  eyes;   I 

could  not  see 

That  sorrow  in  our  happy  world  must  be 
Love's  deepest  spokesman  and  interpreter: 
But,  as  a  mother  feels  her  child  first  stir 
Under  her  heart,  so  felt  I  instantly 
Deep  in  my  soul  another  bond  to  thee 
Thrill  with  that  life  we  saw  depart  from  her ; 
O  mother  of  our  angel  child  !  twice  dear  ! 
Death  knits  as  well  as  parts,  and  still,  I  wis, 
Her  tender  radiance  shall  infold  us  here, 
Even  as  the  light,  borne  up  by  inward  bliss, 
Threads  the  void  glooms  of  space  without 

a  fear, 

To  print  on  farthest  stars  her  pitying  kiss. 

(1849.) 


THE   BIGLOW   PAPERS1 


FIRST    SERIES 


No.  I 

A    LETTER  2 

FROM  MR.  EZEKIEL  BIGLOW  OF  JAALAM 
TO  THE  HON.  JOSEPH  T.  BUCKINGHAM, 
EDITOR  OF  THE  BOSTON  COURIER,  IN- 
CLOSING A  POEM  OF  HIS  SON,  MR. 
HOSEA  BIGLOW 

JAYLEM,  June  1846. 

MISTER  EDDYTER,  —  Our  Hosea  wuz 
down  to  Boston  last  week,  and  he  see  a 

1  Cumberland  in  his  Memoirs  tells  us  that  when,  in 
the  midst  of  Admiral  Rodney's  great  sea-fight,  Sir 
Charles  Douglas  said  to  him,  '  Behold,  Sir  George,  the 
Gree'is  and  Trojans  contending  for  the  body  of  Patrc- 
clus ! '  the  Admiral  answered,  peevishly,  '  Damn  the 
Greeks  and  damn  the  Trojans  !  I  have  other  things  to 
think  of.'  After  the  battle  was  won,  Rodney  thus  to 
Sir  Charles,  '  Now,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  at  the  service 
of  your  Greeks  and  Trojans,  and  the  whole  of  Homer'g 
Iliad,  or  as  much  of  it  as  you  please  ! '  I  had  some  such 
feeling  of  the  impertinence  of  our  pseudo-classicality 
when  I  chose  our  homely  dialect  to  work  in.  Should 
we  be  nothing,  because  somebody  had  contrived  to  be 
something  (and  that  perhaps  in  a  provincial  dialect) 

rago?  and  be  nothing  by  our  very  attempt  to  be 
something,  which  they  had  already  been,  and 
which  therefore  nobody  could  be  again  without  being  a 
bore  ?  Is  there  no  way  left,  then,  I  thought,  of  being 
natural,  of  being  naif,  which  means  nothing  more  than 
native,  of  belonging  to  the  age  and  country  in  which 
you  are  born?  The  Yankee,  at  least,  is  a  new  phe- 
nomenon ;  let  us  try  to  be  that.  .  .  .  To  me  the  dialect 
was  native,  was  spoken  all  about  me  when  a  boy,  at  a 
time  when  an  Irish  day-laborer  was  as  rare  as  an  Ameri- 


cruetin  Sarjunt  a  struttin  round  as  popler 
as  a  hen  with  1  chicking,  with  2  fellers  a 

can  one  now.  Since  then  I  have  made  a  study  of  it  so 
far  as  opportunity  allowed.  But  when  I  write  in  it,  it 
is  as  in  a  mother  tongue,  and  I  am  carried  back  far 
beyond  any  studies  of  it  to  long-ago  noonings  in  my 
father's  hay-fields,  and  to  the  talk  of  Sam  and  Job  over 
their  jug  of  blackstrap  under  the  shadow  of  the  ash- 
tree  which  still  dapples  the  grass  whence  they  have 
been  gone  so  long.  (LOWELL,  in  the  '  Introduction '  to 
the  Biglow  Papers,  1866.) 

1  only  know  that  I  believed  our  war  with  Mexico 
(though  we  had  as  just  ground  for  it  as  a  strong  nation 
ever  has  against  a  weak  one)  to  be  essentially  a  war  of 
false  pretences,  and  that  it  would  result  in  widening 
the  boundaries  and  so  prolonging  the  life  of  slavery.  .  .  . 
Against  these  and  many  other  things  I  thought  all  hon- 
est men  should  protest.    I  was  born  and  bred  in  the 
country,  and  the  dialect  was  homely  to  me.   I  tried  my 
first  Biglow  Paper  in  a  newspaper,  and   found  that 
it  had  a  great  run.   So  I  wrote  the  others  from  time 
to  time  during  the  year  which  followed,  always  very 
rapidly,  and  sometimes  (as  with  '  What  Mr.  Robinson 
thinks  ')  at  one  sitting. 

When  I  came  to  collect  them  and  publish  them  in  a 
volume,  I  conceived  my  parson-editor  with  his  ped- 
antry and  verbosity,  his  amiable  vanity  and  superiority 
to  the  verses  he  was  editing,  as  a  fitting  artistic  back- 
ground and  soil.  It  gave  me  the  chance,  too,  of  glan- 
cing obliquely  at  many  things  which  were  beyond  the 
horizon  of  my  other  characters.  (LOWELL,  in  a  letter 
on  the  first  series  of  the  Biglow  Papers,  September  13, 
1859,  to  Thomas  Hughes,  who  was  planning  an  English 
reprint  of  them.  Lowell's  Letters,  vol.  i,  pp.  29G,  297. 
Quoted  by  the  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Harper  & 
Bros.)  On  the  political  effect  of  the  Biglow  Papers, 
see  Greenslet's  Lowell,  pp.  84-86. 

2  The  act  of  May  13,  1846,  authorized  President  Polk 
to  employ  the  militia,  and  call  out  60,000  volunteers,  if 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


drummin  and  fifin  arter  him  like  all  nater. 
the  sarjunt  he  thout  Hosea  bed  n't  gut  his 
i  teeth  cut  cos  he  looked  a  kindo  's  though 
he  'd  jest  com  down,  so  he  cal'lated  to  hook 
him  in,  but  Hosy  wood  n't  take  none  o'  his 
sarse  for  all  he  hed  much  as  20  Rooster's 
tales  stuck  onto  his  hat  and  eenamost  enuf 
brass  a  bobbin  up  and  down  on  his  shoul- 
ders and  figureed  onto  his  coat  and  trousis, 
let  alone  wut  nater  hed  sot  in  his  f eaters, 
to  make  a  6  pounder  out  on. 

wal,  Hosea  he  com  home  considerabal 
riled,  and  arter  I  'd  gone  to  bed  I  heern 
Him  a  thrashiu  round  like  a  short-tailed 
Bull  in  fli-time.  The  old  Woman  ses  she 
to  me  ses  she,  Zekle,  ses  she,  our  Hosee  's 
gut  the  chollery  or  suthin  anuther  ses  she, 
don't  you  Bee  skeered,  ses  I,  he 's  oney 
amakin  pottery  :  ses  i,  he  's  oilers  on  hand 
at  that  ere  busynes  like  Da  &  martin,  and 
shure  enuf,  cum  rnornin,  Hosy  he  cum  down 
stares  full  chizzle,  hare  on  eend  and  cote 
tales  flyin,  and  sot  rite  of  to  go  reed  his 
varses  to  Parson  Wilbur  bein  he  haint  aney 
grate  shows  o'  book  larnin  himself,  bimeby 
he  cum  back  and  sed  the  parson  wuz  dreffle 
tickled  with  'em  as  i  hoop  you  will  Be,  and 
said  they  wuz  True  grit. 

Hosea  ses  taint  hardly  fair  to  call  'em 
hisn  now,  cos  the  parson  kind  o'  slicked  off 
sum  o'  the  last  varses,  but  he  told  Hosee 
he  did  n't  want  to  put  his  ore  in  to  tetch  to 
the  Rest  on  'em,  bein  they  wuz  verry  well 
As  thay  wuz,  and  then  Hosy  ses  he  sed 
suthin  a  nuther  about  Simplex  Mundishes 
or  sum  sech  feller,  but  I  guess  Hosea  kind 
o'  did  n't  hear  him,  for  I  never  hearn  o' 
nobody  o'  that  name  in  this  villadge,  and 
I  've  lived  here  man  and  boy  76  year  cum 
next  tater  diggin,  and  thair  aint  no  wheres 
a  kitting  spryer  'n  I  be. 

necessary.  He  immediately  called  for  the  full  number 
of  volunteers,  asking  Massachusetts  for  777  men.  On 
May  26  Governor  Briggs  issued  a  proclamation  for  the 
enrolment  of  the  regiment.  As  the  President's  call  was 
merely  a  request  and  not  an  order,  many  Whigs  and 
the  Abolitionists  were  for  refusing  it.  The  liberator 
for  June  5  severely  censured  the  governor  for  comply- 
ing, and  accused  him  of  not  carrying  out  the  resolu- 
tions of  the  last  Whig  Convention,  which  had  pledged 
the  party  '  to  present  as  firm  a  front  of  opposition  to 
the  institution  as  was  consistent  with  their  allegiance 
to  the  Constitution."  (Note  by  Mr.  Frank  Beverly  Wil- 
liams, in  the  Riverside  and  Cambridge  Editions  of 
Lowell's  Poetical  Works). 

1  Ant  insanit,  out  versos  facit. — H.  W.  (The  com- 
ments signed  H.  W.  are  made  by  the  Rev.  Homer  Wil- 
bur, A.  M.,  pastor  of  the  First  Church  in  Jaalam, 
who  edits  the  poems  of  his  young  parishioner  Hosea 


If  you  print  'em  I  wish  you  'd  jest  let 
folks  know  who  hosy's  father  is,  cos  my  ant 
Keziah  used  to  say  it 's  nater  to  be  curus 
ses  she,  she  aint  livin  though  and  he  's 
a  likely  kind  o'  lad. 

EZEKIEL  BIGLOW. 


THRASH  away,  you  '11  hev  to  rattle 

On  them  kittle-drums  o'  yourn, — 
'T  aint  a  knowin'  kind  o'  cattle 

Thet  is  kekched  with  mouldy  corn; 
Put  in  stiff,  you  fifer  feller, 

Let  folks  see  how  spry  you  be,  — 
Guess  you  '11  toot  till  you  are  yeller 

'Fore  you  git  ahold  o'  me  ! 

Thet  air  flag  's  a  leetle  rotten, 

Hope  it  aint  your  Sunday's  best; —    u» 
Fact  !  it  takes  a  sight  o'  cotton 

To  stuff  out  a  soger's  chest: 
Sence  we  farmers  hev  to  pay  fer  't, 

Ef  you  must  wear  humps  like  these, 
S'posin'  you  should  try  salt  hay  fer  't, 

It  would  du  ez  slick  ez  grease. 

'T  would  n't  suit  them  Southun  fellerst 

They  're  a  dreffle  graspin'  set, 
We  must  oilers  blow  the  bellers 

Wen  they  want  their  irons  het;  2o 

May  be  it 's  all  right  ez  preachin', 

But  my  narves  it  kind  o'  grates, 
Wen  I  see  the  overreachin' 

O'  them  nigger-drivin'  States. 

Them  thet  rule  us,  them  slave-traders, 

Haint  they  cut  a  thunderin'  swarth 
(Helped  by  Yankee  renegaders), 

Thru  the  vartu  o'  the  North  ! 
We  begin  to  think  it 's  nater 

To  take  sarse  an'  not  be  riled; —       30 
Who  'd  expect  to  see  a  tater 

All  on  eend  at  bein'  biled  ? 

Ez  fer  war,  I  call  it  murder,  — 

There  you  hev  it  plain  an'  flat; 
I  don't  want  to  go  no  furder 

Than  my  Testyment  fer  that; 
God  hez  sed  so  plump  an'  fairly, 

It 's  ez  long  ez  it  is  broad, 
An'  you  've  gut  to  git  up  airly 

Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God.  40 

T  aint  your  eppyletts  an'  feathers 
Make  the  thing  a  grain  more  right; 


432 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


T  aint  afollerin'  your  bell-wethers 

Will  excuse  ye  in  His  sight; 
Ef  you  take  a  sword  an'  dror  it, 

An'  go  stick  a  feller  thru, 
Guv'ment  aint  to  answer  for  it, 

God  '11  send  the  bill  to  you. 

Wut  's  the  use  o'  meetin'-goin' 

Every  Sabbath,  wet  or  dry,  50 

Ef  it  's  right  to  go  amowin' 

Feller-men  like  oats  an'  rye  ? 
I  dunno  but  wut  it  's  pooty 

Trainin'  round  in  bobtail  coats,  — 
But  it 's  curus  Christian  dooty 

This  'ere  cuttin'  folks's  throats. 

They  may  talk  o'  Freedom's  airy 

Tell  they  're  pupple  in  the  face,  — 
It 's  a  grand  gret  cemetary 

Fer  the  barthrights  of  our  race;  60 

They  jest  want  this  Californy 

So  's  to  lug  new  slave-States  in 
To  abuse  ye,  an'  to  scorn  ye, 

An'  to  plunder  ye  like  sin. 

Aint  it  cute  to  see  a  Yankee 

Take  sech  everlastin'  pains, 
All  to  get  the  Devil's  thankee 

Helpin'  on  'em  weld  their  chains  ? 
Wy,  it 's  jest  ez  clear  ez  figgers, 

Clear  ez  one  an'  one  make  two,  7o 

Chaps    thet    make    black    slaves    o'  nig- 
gers 

Want  to  make  wite  slaves  o'  you. 

Tell  ye  jest  the  eend  I  've  come  to 

Arter  cipherin'  plaguy  smart, 
An'  it  makes  a  handy  sum,  tu, 

Any  gump  could  larn  by  heart; 
Laborin'  man  an'  laborin'  woman 

Hev  one  glory  an'  one  shame. 
Ev'y  thin'  thet 's  done  inhuman 

Injers  all  on  'em  the  same.  80 

'T  aint  by  turnin'  out  to  hack  folks 

You  're  agoin'  to  git  your  right, 
Nor  by  lookin'  down  on  black  folks 

Coz  you  're  put  upon  by  wite ; 
Slavery  aint  o'  nary  color, 

'T  aint  the  hide  thet  makes  it  wus, 
All  it  keers  f er  in  a  feller 

'S  jest  to  make  him  fill  its  pus. 

Want  to  tackle  me  in,  du  ye  ? 

I  expect  you  '11  hev  to  wait;  90 


Wen  cold  lead  puts  daylight  thru  ye 

You'llbegintokal'late; 
S'pose  the  crows  wun't  fall  to  pickin' 

All  the  carkiss  from  your  bones, 
Coz  you  helped  to  give  a  lickin' 

To  them  poor  half-Spanish  drones  ? 

Jest  go  home  an'  ask  our  Nancy 

Wether  I  'd  be  sech  a  goose 
Ez  to  jine  ye,  —  guess  you  'd  fancy 

The  etarnal  bung  wuz  loose  !  J0o 

She  wants  me  fer  home  consumption, 

Let  alone  the  hay  's  to  mow,  — 
Ef  you  're  arter  folks  o'  gumption, 

You  've  a  darned  long  row  to  hoe. 

Take  them  editors  thet 's  crowin' 

Like  a  cockerel  three  months  old,  — 
Do'n't  ketch  any  on  'em  goin', 

Though  they  be  so  blasted  bold; 
Aint  they  a  prime  lot  o'  fellers  ? 

'Fore   they   think   on  't    guess   they  '11 
sprout  no 

(Like  a  peach  thet 's  got  the  yellers), 

With.the  meanness  bustin'  out. 

Wai,  go  'long  to  help  'em  stealin' 

Bigger  pens  to  cram  with  slaves, 
Help  the  men  thet 's  oilers  dealin' 

Insults  on  your  fathers'  graves ; 
Help  the  strong  to  grind  the  feeble, 

Help  the  many  agin  the  few, 
Help  the  men  thet  call  your  people 

Witewashed  slaves  an'  peddlin'  crew  !  120 

Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her, 

She  's  akneelin'  with  the  rest,1 
She,  thet  ough'  to  ha'  clung  ferever 

In  her  grand  old  eagle-nest; 
She  thet  ough'  to  stand  so  fearless 

Wile  the  wracks  are  round  her  hurled, 
Holdin'  up  a  beacon  peerless 

To  the  oppressed  of  all  the  world  ! 


1  An  allusion  to  the  governor's  call  for  troops  as  well 
as  to  the  vote  on  the  War  Bill.  On  May  11,  1846,  the 
President  sent  to  the  House  of  Representatives  his 
well-known  message  declaring  the  existence  of  war 
brought  on  'by  the  act  of  Mexico,'  and  asking  for  a 
supply  of  $10,000,000.  Of  the  seven  members  from 
Massachusetts,  all  Whigs,  two,  Robert  C.  Winthrop,  of 
Boston,  and  Amos  Abbott,  of  Andover,  voted  for  the 
bill.  The  Whigs  throughout  the  country,  remembering 
the  fate  of  the  party  which  had  opposed  the  last  war 
with  England,  sanctioned  the  measure  as  necessary  for 
the  preservation  of  the  army,  then  in  peril  by  the  un- 
authorized acts  of  the  President.  (F.  B.  Williams,  in 
Riverside  and  Cambridge  Editions.) 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


433 


Ha 'n't  they  sold  your  colored  seamen  ? 

Ha'u't  they  made  your  env'ys  w'iz  ?  l 
Wut  '11  make  ye  act  like  freemen  ?      131 

Wut  '11  git  your  dander  riz  ? 
Come,  I  '11  tell  ye  wut  I  'm  thinkin' 

Is  our  dooty  in  this  fix, 
They  'd  ha'  done  't  ez  quick  ez  winkin' 

In  the  days  o'  seventy-six. 

Clang  the  bells  in  every  steeple, 

Call  all  true  men  to  disown 
The  tradoocers  of  our  people, 

The  enslavers  o'  their  own;  140 

Let  our  dear  old  Bay  State  proudly 

Put  the  trumpet  to  her  mouth, 
Let  her  ring  this  messidge  loudly 

In  the  ears  of  all  the  South  :  — 

'  I  '11  return  ye  good  fer  evil 

Much  ez  we  frail  mortils  can, 
But  I  wun't  go  help  the  Devil 

Makin'  man  the  cus  o'  man; 
Call  me  coward,  call  me  traiter, 

Jest  ez  suits  your  mean  idees,  —       150 
Here  I  stand  a  tyrant-hater, 

An'  the  friend  o'  God  an'  Peace  ! ' 

Ef  I  'd  my  way  I  hed  riither 

We  should  go  to  work  an'  part,  2 

They  take  one  way,  we  take  t'  other, 
Guess  it  wouldn't  break  my  heart; 

1  South    Carolina,    Louisiana,    and     several    other 
Southern  States  at  an  early  date  passed  acts  to  prevent 
free  persons  of  color  from  entering  their  jurisdictions. 
These  acts  bore  with  particular  severity  upon  colored 
seamen,  who  were  imprisoned,  fined,  or  whipped,  and 
often  sold  into  slavery.     On  the  petition  of  the  Mas- 
sachusetts Legislature,  Governor  Briggs,  in  1844,  ap- 
pointed Mr.  Samuel  Hoar  agent  to  Charleston,  and  Mr. 
George  Hubbard  to  New  Orleans,  to  act  on  behalf  of 
oppressed  colored  citizens  of  the  Bay  State.     Mr.  Hoar 
was  expelled  from  South  Carolina  by  order  of  the  Legis- 
lature of  that  State,  and  Mr.  Hubbard  was  forced  by 
threats  of  violence  to  leave  Louisiana.     The  obnoxious 
acts  remained  in  force  until    after    the  Civil  War. 
(F.  B.  Williams,  in  Riverside  and  Cambridge  Editions.) 

2  Propositions  to  secede  were  not  uncommon  in  New 
England  at  this  time.   The  rights  of  the  States  had  been 
strongly  asserted  on  the  acquisition  of  Louisiana  in  1803, 
and  on  the  admission  of  the  State  of  that  name  in  1812. 
Among  the  resolutions  of  the   Massachusetts  Legis- 
lature adopted  in  1845,  relative  to  the  proposed  annexa- 
tion of  Texas,  was  one  declaring  that  '  such  an  act  of 
admission  would  have  no  binding  force  whatever  on  the 
people  of  Massachusetts.' 

John  Quincy  Adams,  in  a  discourse  before  the  New 
York  Historical  Society,  in  1830,  claimed  a  right  for  the 
States  '  to  part  in  friendship  with  each  other  .  .  .  when 
the  fraternal  spirit  shall  give  way,'  etc.  The  Garrisonian 
wing  of  the  Abolitionists  notoriously  advocated  seces- 
sion. There  were  several  other  instances  of  an  expres- 
sion of  this  sentiment,  but  for  the  most  part  they  were 
not  evoked  by  opposition  to  slavery.  (F.  B.  Williams  in 
Riverside  and  Cambridge  Editions.) 


Man  hed  ough'  to  put  asunder 
Them  thet  God  has  noways  jined; 

An'  I  should  n't  gretly  wonder 
Ef  there  's  thousands  o'  my  mind. 

June  17,  1846. 

[The  first  recruiting  sergeant  on  record  I 
conceive  to  have  been  that  individual  who 
is  mentioned  in  the  Book  of  Job  as  going  to 
and  fro  in  the  earth,  and  walking  up  and  down 
in  it.  Bishop  Latimer  will  have  him  to  have 
been  a  bishop,  but  to  me  that  other  calling 
would  appear  more  congenial.  The  sect  of 
Cainites  is  not  yet  extinct,  who  esteemed 
the  first-born  of  Adam  to  be  the  most  wor- 
thy, not  only  because  of  that  privilege  of 
primogeniture,  but  inasmuch  as  he  was  able 
to  overcome  and  slay  his  younger  brother. 
That  was  a  wise  saying  of  the  famous  Mar- 
quis Pescara  to  the  Papal  Legate,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  men  to  serve  Mars  and 
Christ  at  the  same  time.  Yet  in  time  past 
the  profession  of  arms  was  judged  to  be 
KO.T'  Qoxfa  that  of  a  gentleman,  nor  does 
this  opinion  want  for  strenuous  upholders 
even  in  our  day.  Must  we  suppose,  then, 
that  the  profession  of  Christianity  was  only 
intended  for  losels,  or,  at  best,  to  afford  an 
opening  for  plebeian  ambition  ?  Or  shall  we 
hold  with  that  nicely  metaphysical  Pome- 
ranian, Captain  Vratz,  who  was  Count  Ko- 
nigsmark's  chief  instrument  in  the  murder 
of  Mr.  Thynne,  that  the  Scheme  of  Salva- 
tion has  been  arranged  with  an  especial  eye 
to  the  necessities  of  the  upper  classes,  and 
that  '  God  would  consider  a  gentleman  and 
deal  with  him  suitably  to  the  condition  and 
profession  he  had  placed  him  in '  ?  It  may 
be  said  of  us  all,  Exemplo  plus  quam  ratione 
vivimus.  —  H.  W.] 


No.  Ill 
WHAT    MR.   ROBINSON    THINKS 

GUVENER  B.  is  a  sensible  man;3 

He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter  his 
folks; 

'  George  Nixon  Briggs  was  the  Whig  governor  of 
Massachusetts  from  1844  to  1851.  The  campaign  re' 
ferred  to  here  is  that  of  1847.  Governor  Briggs  waa 
renominated  by  acclamation  and  supported  by  hit 
party  with  great  enthusiasm.  His  opponent  was  Caleb 
Gushing,  then  in  Mexico,  and  raised  by  President  Polfc 
to  the  rank  of  Brigadier-General.  Gushing  was  de- 
feated by  a  majority  of  14,060.  (F.  B.  Williams.) 


434 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 
An'  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes; 
But  John  P.  i 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

My  !  aint  it  terrible  ?     Wut  shall  we  du  ? 
We  can't  never  choose  him  o'  course,  — 

thet'sflat; 
Guess  we  shall  hev  to  come  round  (don 't 

you?) 

An'  go  in  fer  thunder  an'  guns,  an'  all 
that; 

Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

Gineral  C.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man:  2 

He  's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  places  or 

pelf; 
But   consistency  still   wuz   a  part  of  his 

plan,  — 

He  's  ben  true  to  one  party,  —  an'  thet  is 
himself;  — 

So  John  P. 

Robinson  he  ao 

Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war; 

He  don't  vally  princerple  more  'n  an  old 

cud; 

Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs  fer, 
But  glory  an'  gunpowder,  plunder  an' 
blood? 

So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin'  on  nicely  up  here  to  our 

village, 
With  good  old  idees  o'  wut  's  right  an' 

wut  aint,  30 

We  kind  o'  thought  Christ  went  agin  war 

an'  pillage, 

»  John  Paul  Robinson  (1799-1864)  was  a  resident  of 
Lowell,  a  lawyer  of  considerable  ability,  and  a  thorough 
classical  scholar.  He  represented  Lowell  in  the  State 
Legislature  in  1829,  1830,  1831,  1833,  and  1842,  and  was 
Senator  from  Middlesex  in  1836.  Late  in  the  guberna- 
torial contest  of  1847  it  was  rumored  that  Robinson, 
heretofore  a  zealous  Whig,  and  a  delegate  to  the  recent 
Springfield  Convention,  had  gone  over  to  the  Demo- 
cratic or,  as  it  was  then  styled,  the  '  Loco '  camp. 
The  editor  of  the  Boston  Palladium  wrote  to  him  to 
learn  the  truth,  and  Robinson  replied  in  an  open  letter 
avowing  his  intention  to  vote  for  Gushing.  (F.  B. 
Williams.) 

1  General  Caleb  Gushing. 


An'  thet  eppyletts  worn't  the  best  mark 
of  a  saint; 

But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  this  kind  o'  thing  's  an  exploded 
idee. 

The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be  took, 
An'  President  Polk,  you  know,  he  is  our 

country. 
An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a 

book 

Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an'  to  us  the  per 
contry; 

An*  John  P.  ,  4o 

Robinson  he 
Sez  this  is  his  view  o'  the  thing  to  a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argimunts 

lies; 
Sez   they  're   nothin'  on  airth    but   jest 

fee,faw,fum; 

An'  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 
Is   half  on  it  ign'ance,  an'  t'  other  half 
rum; 

But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  it  aint  no  sech  thing;  an',  of  course, 
so  must  we. 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  he   never  heerd  in  his 

life  50 

Thet  th'  Apostles    rigged   out   in  their 

swaller-tail  coats, 
An'  marched  round  in  front  of  a  drum  an* 

a  fife, 

To   git  some  on  'em  office,  an'  some  on 
'em  votes; 

But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  they  did  n't  know  everythin'  down 
in  Judee. 

Wai,  it 's  a  marcy  we  've  gut  folks  to  tell  us 
The  rights  an'  the  wrongs  o'  these  mat- 
ters, I  vow,  — 
God  sends  country  lawyers,  an'  other  wise 

fellers, 

To  start  the  world's  team  wen  it  gits  in 
a  slough;  60 

Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  the  world  '11  go  right,  ef  he  hollers 
out  Gee ! 

November  2, 1847. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


435 


[The  attentive  reader  will  doubtless  have 
perceived  in  the  foregoing  poem  an  allusion 
to  that  pernicious  sentiment,  '  Our  coun- 
try, right  or  wrong.'  It  is  an  abuse  of  lan- 
guage to  call  a  certain  portion  of  land, 
much  more,  certain  personages,  elevated 
for  the  time  being  to  high  station,  our 
country.  I  would  not  sever  nor  loosen  a 
single  one  of  those  ties  by  which  we  are 
united  to  the  spot  of  our  birth,  nor  minish 
by  a  tittle  the  respect  due  to  the  Magis- 
trate. I  love  our  own  Bay  State  too  well 
to  do  the  one,  and  as  for  the  other,  I  have 
myself  for  nigh  forty  years  exercised,  how- 
ever unworthily,  the  function  of  Justice  of 
the  Peace,  having  been  called  thereto  by 
the  unsolicited  kindness  of  that  most  ex- 
cellent man  and  upright  patriot,  Caleb 
Strong.  Patriaefumus  igne  alieno  luculentior 
is  best  qualified  with  this,  —  Ubi  liberlas, 
ibi  patria.  We  are  inhabitants  of  two 
worlds,  and  owe  a  double,  not  a  divided, 
allegiance.  In  virtue  of  our  clay,  this  little 
ball  of  earth  exacts  a  certain  loyalty  of  us, 
while,  in  our  capacity  as  spirits,  we  are  ad- 
mitted citizens  of  an  invisible  and  holier 
fatherland.  There  is  a  patriotism  of  the 
soul  whose  claim  absolves  us  from  our  other 
and  terrene  fealty.  Our  true  country  is 
that  ideal  realm  which  we  represent  to  our- 
selves under  the  names  of  religion,  duty, 
and  the  like.  Our  terrestrial  organizations 
are  but  far-off  approaches  to  so  fair  a 
model,  and  all  they  are  verily  traitors  who 
resist  not  any  attempt  to  divert  them  from 
this  their  original  intendment.  When,  there- 
fore, one  would  have  us  to  fling  up  our  caps 
and  shout  with  the  multitude,  'Our  coun- 
try, however  bounded  !  '  l  he  demands  of  us 
that  we  sacrifice  the  larger  to  the  less,  the 
higher  to  the  lower,  and  that  we  yield  to 
the  imaginary  claims  of  a  few  acres  of  soil 
our  duty  and  privilege  as  liegemen  of 
Truth.  Our  true  country  is  bounded  on  the 
north  and  the  south,  on  the  east  and  the 
west,  by  Justice,  and  when  she  oversteps 
that  invisible  boundary-line  by  so  much  as  a 
hair's-breadth,  she  ceases  to  be  our  mother, 

1  Mr.  R.  C.  Winthrop,  M.  C.,  in  a  speech  at  Faneuil 
Hall,  July  4,  1846,  said  in  deprecation  of  secession : 
'Our  country  — bounded  by  the  St.  John's  and  the 
Sabine,  or  however  otherwise  bounded  or  described, 
and  be  the  measurements  more  or  loss  —  still  our  coun- 
try —  to  be  cherished  in  all  our  hearts,  to  be  defended 
by  all  our  hands.'  The  sentiment  was  at  once  taken  up 
»nd  used  effectively  by  the  '  Cotton  '  Whigs,  those  who 
inclined  to  favor  the  Mexican  War.  (F.  B.  Williams.) 


and  chooses  rather  to  be  looked  upon  quasi 
noverca.  That  is  a  hard  choice  when  our 
earthly  love  of  country  calls  upon  us  to 
tread  one  path  and  our  duty  points  us  to 
another.  We  must  make  as  noble  and  be- 
coming an  election  as  did  Penelope  be- 
tween Icarius  and  Ulysses.  Veiling  our 
faces,  we  must  take  silently  the  hand  of 
Duty  to  follow  her.  .  .  .  H.  W.] 

No.  VI 
THE  PIOUS    EDITOR'S   CREED 

I  DU  believe  in  Freedom's  cause, 

Ez  fur  away  ez  Payris  is;2 
I  love  to  see  her  stick  her  claws 

In  them  infarnal  Phayrisees; 
It 's  wal  enough  agin  a  king 

To  dror  resolves  an'  triggers,  — 
But  libbaty  's  a  kind  o'  thing 

Thet  don't  agree  with  niggers. 

I  du  believe  the  people  want 

A  tax  on  teas  an'  coffees,  u 

Thet  nothin'  aint  extravygunt,  — 

Purvidin'  I  'm  in  office ; 
Fer  I  hev  loved  my  country  sence 

My  eye-teeth  filled  their  sockets, 
An'  Uncle  Sam  I  reverence, 

Partic'larly  his  pockets. 

1  du  believe  in  any  plan 

O'  levy  in'  the  texes, 
Ez  long  ez,  like  a  lumberman, 

I  git  jest  wut  I  axes;  K 

I  go  free-trade  thru  thick  an'  thin, 

Because  it  kind  o'  rouses 
The  folks  to  vote,  —  an'  keeps  us  in 

Our  quiet  custom-houses. 

I  du  believe  it 's  wise  an'  good 

To  sen'  out  furrin  missions, 
Thet  is,  on  sartin  understood 

An'  orthydox  conditions ;  — 
I  mean  nine  thousan'  dolls,  per  aim., 

Nine  thousan'  more  fer  outfit,  30 

An'  me  to  recommend  a  man 

The  place  'ould  jest  about  fit. 

I  du  believe  in  special  ways 
O'  prayin'  an'  convartin'; 
The  bread  comes  back  in  many  days, 

2  This  was  written  just  after  the  Revolution  of  184» 
In  France,  when  the  monarchy  of  Louis  Philippe  was 
overthrown. 


436 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


An'  buttered,  tu,  fer  sartin; 
I  mean  in  preyin'  till  one  busts 

On  wut  the  party  chooses, 
An'  in  convartin'  public  trusts 

To  very  privit  uses.  40 

1  du  believe  hard  coin  the  stuff 

Fer  'lectioneers  to  spout  on; 
The  people  's  oilers  soft  enough 

To  make  hard  money  out  on; 
Dear  Uncle  Sam  pervides  fer  his, 

An'  gives  a  good-sized  junk  to  all,  — 
I  don't  care  how  hard  money  is, 

Ez  long  ez  mine 's  paid  puuctooal. 

I  du  believe  with  all  my  soul 

In  the  gret  Press's  freedom,  50 

To  pint  the  people  to  the  goal 

An'  in  the  traces  lead  'em; 
Palsied  the  arm  thet  forges  yokes 

At  my  fat  contracts  squintin', 
An'  withered  be  the  nose  thet  pokes 

Inter  the  gov'ment  printin' ! 

I  du  believe  thet  I  should  give 

Wut 's  his'n  unto  Csesar, 
Fer  it 's  by  him  I  move  an'  live, 

Frum  him  my  bread  an'  cheese  air;  60 
I  du  believe  thet  all  o'  me 

Doth  bear  his  superscription,  — 
Will,  conscience,  honor,  honesty, 

An'  things  o'  thet  description. 

I  du  believe  in  prayer  an'  praise 

To  him  thet  hez  the  grantin' 
O'  jobs,  —  in  every  thin'  thet  pays, 

But  most  of  all  in  CANTIN'  ; 
This  doth  my  cup  with  marcies  fill, 

This  lays  all  thought  o'  sin  to  rest,    70 
I  don't  believe  in  princerple, 

But  oh,  I  du  in  interest. 

I  du  believe  in  bein'  this 

Or  thet,  ez  it  may  happen 
One  way  or  't  other  hendiest  is 

To  ketch  the  people  nappin' ; 
It  aint  by  princerples  nor  men 

My  preudunt  course  is  steadied,  — 
I  scent  wich  pays  the  best,  an'  then 

Go  into  it  baldheaded.  80 

I  du  believe  thet  holdin'  slaves 
Comes  nat'ral  to  a  Presidunt, 

Let  'lone  the  rowdedow  it  saves 
To  hev  a  wal-broke  precedunt; 


Fer  any  office,  small  or  gret, 

I  could  n't  ax  with  no  face, 
'uthout  I  'd  ben,  thru  dry  an'  wet, 

Th'  unrizzest  kind  o'  doughface. 

I  du  believe  wutever  trash 

'11  keep  the  people  in  blindness,  gc 

Thet  we  the  Mexicuns  can  thrash 

Right  inter  brotherly  kindness, 
Thet  bombshells,  grape,  an'  powder  'n'  ball 

Air  good-will's  strongest  magnets, 
Thet  peace,  to  make  it  stick  at  all, 

Must  be  druv  in  with  bagnets. 

In  short,  I  firmly  du  believe 

In  Humbug  generally, 
Fer  it 's  a  thing  thet  I  perceive 

To  hev  a  solid  vally ;  too 

This  heth  my  faithful  shepherd  ben, 

In  pasturs  sweet  heth  led  me, 
An'  this  '11  keep  the  people  green 

To  feed  ez  they  hev  fed  me. 

May  4,  1848. 

NO.  VIII 

A  SECOND  LETTER  FROM 
B.  SAWIN,  ESQ.  i 

I  SPOSE  you  wonder  ware  I  be ;  1  can't  tell, 

fer  the  soul  o'  me, 
Exacly  ware  I    be  myself,  —  meanin'  by 

thet  the  holl  o'  me. 
Wen  I  left  hum,  I  hed  two  legs,  an'  they 

worn't  bad  ones  neither 
(The  scaliest  trick  they  ever  played  wuz 

bringin'  on  me  hither), 
Now  one  on  'em  's  I  dunno  ware ;  —  they 

thought  I  wuz  adyin', 
An'  sawed  it  off  because  they  said  't  WU2. 

kin'  o'  mortifyin'; 
I  'm  willin'  to  believe  it  wuz,  an'  yit  I  don't 

see,  nuther, 
Wy  one  shoud  take  to  feelin'  cheap  a  min- 

nit  sooner  'n  t'  other, 
Sence   both   wuz   equilly   to   blame;     but 

things  is  ez  they  be: 
It  took  on  so  they  took  it  off,  an'  thet 's 

enough  fer  me:  10 

There  's  one  good  thing,  though,  to  be  said 

about  my  wooden  new  one,  — 

1 '  Birdofredum  Sawin  '  is  a  fellow-townsman  of  Hosea 
Biglow,  who '  wuz  cussed  fool  enuff  to  goe  atrottin  iiitei- 
Miss  Chiff  arter  a  Drum  and  fife,'  beguiled  by  the 
'  cruetin  sarjunt'  of  Biglow  Paper  No.  I.  His  first  letter 
is  given  in  No.  1L 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


437 


The  liquor  can  't  git  into  it  ez  't  used  to  in 

the  true  one ; 
So  it  saves  drink ;  an'  then,  besides,  a  feller 

couldn't  beg 
A  gretter  blessin'  then  to  hev  one  oilers 

sober  peg; 
It 's  true  a  chap 's  in  want  o'  two  fer  follerin' 

a  drum, 
But  all  the  march  I  'm  up  to  now  is  jest  to 

Kingdom  Come. 

I  've  lost  one  eye,  but  thet  's  a  loss  it 's  easy 

to  supply 
Out  o'  the  glory  thet  I  've  gut,  fer  thet  is  all 

my  eye; 

An'  one  is    big  enough,  I   guess,  by  dili- 
gently usin'  it, 
To  see  all  I  shall  ever  git  by  way  o'  pay  fer 

losin'  it;  20 

Off'cers  I  notice,  who  git  paid  fer  all  our 

thumps  an'  kickins, 

Du  wal  by  keepin'  single  eyes  arter  the  fat- 
test pickins; 
So,  ez  the  eye  's  put  fairly  out,  I  '11  larn  to 

go  without  it, 
An'  not  allow  myself  to  be  no  gret  put  out 

about  it. 
Now,  le'  me  see,  thet  is  n't  all ;  I  used,  'fore 

leavin'  Jaalam, 
To  count   things  on  my  flnger-eends,  but 

sutthin*  seems  to  ail  'em : 
Ware  's  my  left  hand?   Oh,  darn  it,  yes,  I 

recollect  wut  's  come  on  't; 
I  haint  no  left  arm  but  my  right,  an'  thet 's 

gut  jest  a  thumb  on  't; 
It  aint  so  bendy  ez  it  wuz  to  cal'late  a  sum 

on  't. 
I  've  hed  some  ribs  broke,  —  six  (I  b'lieve), 

— I  haint  kep'  no  account  on  'em ;  30 
Wen  pensions  git  to  be  the  talk,  I  '11  settle 

the  amount  on  'em. 
An'  now  I  'm  speakin'  about  ribs,  it  kin'  o' 

brings  to  mind 
One  thet  I  could  n't  never  break,  —  the  one 

I  lef  behind; 
Ef  you  should  see  her,  jest  clear  out  the 

spout  o'  your  invention 
An'  pour  the  longest  sweetnin'  in  about  an 

annooal  pension, 
An'  kin'  o'    hint  (in  case,  you   know,  the 

critter  should  refuse  to  be 
Consoled)  I  aint  so  'xpensive  now  to  keep 

ez  wut  I  used  to  be; 
There  's  one  arm    less,  ditto  one  eye,  an' 

then  the  leg  thet 's  wooden 


Can  be  took  off  an'  sot  away  wenever  ther  's 
a  puddin'. 

I  spose  you  think  I  'm  comin'  back  ez  op- 

perlunt  ez  thunder,  40 

With  shiploads  o'  gold   images  an'  varus 

sorts  o'  plunder; 
Wal,  'fore  I  vullinteered,  I  thought  this 

country  wuz  a  sort  o' 
Canaan,  a  reg'lar  Promised    Land  flowin' 

with  rum  an'  water. 
Ware  propaty  growed  up  like  time,  without 

no  cultivation, 
An'  gold  wuz  dug  ez  taters  be  among  our 

Yankee  nation, 
Ware    nateral    advantages    were    pufficly 

amazin', 

Ware  every  rock  there  wuz  about  with  pre- 
cious stuns  wuz  blazin', 
Ware    mill-sites   filled  the   country  up  ez 

thick  ez  you  could  cram  'em. 
An'  desput  rivers  run  about  a  beggin'  folks 

to  dam  'em; 
Then  there  were  meetiuhouses,  tu,  chockful 

o'  gold  an'  silver  50 

Thet  you  could  take,  an'  no  one  could  n't 

hand  ye  in  no  bill  fer;  — 
Thet 's  wut  I  thought  afore  I  went,  thet 's 

wut  them  fellers  told  us 
Thet  stayed  to  hum  an'  speechified  an'  to 

the  buzzards  sold  us; 
I   thought  thet   gold-mines  could   be   gut 

cheaper  than  Chiny  asters, 
An'  see  myself  acomin'  back  like  sixty  Ja- 
cob Astors; 
But  sech  idees  soon  melted  down  an'  did  n't 

leave  a  grease-spot; 
I  vow  my  holl  sheer  o'  the  spiles  would  n't 

come  nigh  a  V  spot; 
Although,  most  anywares  we  've  ben,  you 

need  n't  break  no  locks,         v 
Nor  run  no  kin'  o'  risks,  to  fill  your  pocket 

full  o'  rocks. 
I  'xpect  I  mentioned  in  my  last  some  o'  the 

nateral  feeturs  60 

O'  this  all-fiered  buggy  hole  in  th'  way  o! 

awfle  creeturs, 
But  I  fergut  to  name  (new  things  to  speak 

on  so  abounded) 
How  one  day  you  '11  most  die  o'  thust,  an' 

'fore  the  next  git  drownded. 
The  clymit  seems  to  me  jest  like  a  teapot 

made  o'  pewter 
Our  Preudence   hed,   thet   would  n't  pour 

(all  she  could  du)  to  suit  her; 


438' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Fust    place    the    leaves   'ould    choke   the 

spout,  so  's  not  a  drop  'ould  dreen 

out, 
Then  Prude  'ould  tip  an'  tip  an'  tip,  till  the 

holl  kit  bust  clean  out, 
The  kiver-hinge-pin  bein'  lost,  tea-leaves 

an'  tea  an'  kiver 
'ould  all  come  down  kerswosh  !  ez  though 

the  dam  bust  in  a  river. 
Jest  so  't  is  here ;  holl  months  there  aint  a 

day  o'  rainy  weather,  7o 

An'  jest  ez  th'  officers   'ould  be   a   layin' 

heads  together 
Ez  t'  how  they  'd  mix  their  drink  at  sech  a 

milingtary  deepot,  — 
'T  would  pour  ez  though  the  lid  wuz  off  the 

everlastin'  teapot. 
The  cons'quence  is,  thet  I  shall  take,  wen 

I  'm  allowed  to  leave  here, 
One  piece  o'  propaty  along,  an'  thet  's  the 

shakiu'  fever; 
It 's  reggilar  employment,  though,  an'  thet 

aint  thought  to  harm  one, 
Nor  't   aint  so  tiresome  ez    it    wuz  with 

t'  other  leg  an'  arm  on; 
An'  it  's  a  consolation,  tu,  although  it  doos 

n't  pay, 
To  hev  it  said  you  're  some  gret  shakes  in 

any  kin'  o'  way. 
'T  worn't  very  long,  I  tell  ye  wut,  I  thought 

o'  fortin-makin',  —  80 

One  day  a  reg'lar  shiver-de-freeze;  an'  next 

ez  good  ez  bakin',  — 
One  day  abrilin'  in  the  sand,  then  smoth'rin' 

in  the  mashes,  — — 
Git  up  all  sound,  be  put  to  bed  a  mess  o' 

hacks  an'  smashes. 
But  then,  thinks  I,  at  any  rate  there  's  glory 

tobehed, — 
Thet  's  an  investment,  arterall,  thet  may  n't 

turn  out  so  bad; 
But  somehow,  wen  we  'd  fit  an'  licked,  I 

oilers  found  the  thanks 
Gut  kin'  o'  lodged  afore  they  come  ez  low 

down  ez  the  ranks; 
The   Gin'rals   gut    the  biggest  sheer,  the 

Cunnles  next,  an'  so  on,  — 
We  never  gut  a  blasted  mite  o'  glory  ez  I 

know  on; 
An'  spose  we  hed,  I  wonder  how    you  're 

goin'  to  contrive  its  90 

Division    so  's    to  give  a  piece  to   twenty 

thousand  privits; 
Ef  you  should  multiply  by  ten  the  portion 

o'  the  brav'st  one, 


You  would  n't  git  more  'n  half  enough  to 

speak  of  on  a  grave-stun; 
We   git   the  licks,  —  we  're  jest  the  grist 

thet 's  put  into  War's  hoppers ; 
Leftenants  is  the  lowest  grade   thet  helps 

pick  up  the  coppers. 
It  may  suit  folks  thet  go  agin  a  body  with 

a  soul  in't, 
An'  aint  contented  with  a   hide  without  a 

bagnet  hole  in't; 
But  glory  is  a  kin'  o'  thing  /  sha'u't  pursue 

no  furder, 
Coz  thet 's  the  off'cers'  parquisite, — yourn  's 

on'y  jest  the  murder. 

Wai,  arter  I  gin  glory  up,  thinks  I  at  least 

there  's  one  )0o 

Thing  in  the  bills  we  aint  hed  yit,  an'  thet 's 

the  GLORIOUS  FUN: 
Ef  once  we  git  to  Mexico,  we  fairly  may 

persmne  we 
All  day  an'  night  shall  revel  in  the  halls  o' 

Montezumy. 
I  '11  tell  ye  wut  my  revels  wuz,  an'  see  how 

you  would  like  'em; 
We  never  gut  inside  the  hall:  the  nighest 

ever  /  come 
Wuz  stan'in'  sentry  in  the  sun  (an',  fact,  it 

seemed  a  cent'ry) 
A   ketchin'  smells  o'  biled  an'  roast  thet 

come  out  thru  the  entry, 
An'  hearin'  ez  I  sweltered  thru  my  passes 

an'  repasses, 
A  rat-tat-too  o'  knives  an'  forks,  a  clinkty- 

clink  o'  glasses: 
I  can't  tell  off  the  bill  o'  fare  the  Gin'rals 

hed  inside;  no 

All  I  know  is,  thet  out  o'  doors  a  pair  o' 

soles  wuz  fried, 
An'  not  a  hunderd  miles  away  frum  ware 

this  child  wuz  posted, 
A   Massachusetts   citizen   wuz   baked   an' 

biled  an'  roasted; 
The  on'y  thing  like  revellin'  thet  ever  come 

to  me 
Wuz  bein'  routed  out  o'  sleep  by  thet  darned 

revelee. 

They  say  the  quarrel 's  settled  now;  fer  my 

part  I  Ve  some  doubt  on 't, 
't    '11    take     more    fish -skin    than    folks 

think  to    take   the   rile    clean   out 

on 't; 
At  any  rate  I  'm  so  used  up  I  can't  do  no 

more  fightin', 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


439 


The  on'y  chance  thet  's  left  to  me  is  politics 

or  writin' ; 
Now,  ez  the  people  's  gut  to  hev  a  miling- 

tary  man,  120 

An'  I  aint  nothin'  else  jest  now,  I  Ve  hit 

upon  a  plan; 
The  can'idatin'  line,  you  know,  'ould  suit 

me  to  a  T, 
An'  ef  I  lose,  't  wunt  hurt  my  ears  to  lodge 

another  flea; 

So  I  '11  set  up  ez  can'idate  f  er  any  kin'  o'  office 
(I  mean  fer  any  thet  includes  good  easy- 
cheers  an'  soffies; 
Fer  ez  tu  runnin'  fer  a  place  ware  work  's 

the  time  o'  day, 

You  know  thet 's  wut  I   never  did,  —  ex- 
cept the  other  way) ; 
Ef  it  's  the  Presidential  cheer  fer  wich  I  'd 

better  run, 
Wut  two  legs  anywares  about  could  keep 

up  with  my  one  ? 
There  aint  no  kin'  o'  quality  in  can'idates, 

it 's  said,  130 

So  useful  ez  a   wooden    leg,  —  except  a 

wooden  head; 
There  's  nothin'  aint  so  poppylar  (wy,  it 's 

a  parfect  sin 
To  think  wut  Mexico  hez  paid  fer  Santy 

Army's  pin) ; 
Then  I  haint  gut  no  princerples,  an',  sence 

I  wuz  knee-high, 

I  never  did  hev  any  gret,  ez  you  can  testify ; 
I  'm  a  decided  peace-man,  tu,  an'  go  agin 

the  war,  — 
Fer  now  the  holl  on  't  's  gone  an'  past,  wut 

is  there  to  go  for? 
Ef,  wile  you  're  'lectioneerin'  round,  some 

curus  chaps  should  beg 
To  know  my  views   o'   state   affairs,   jest 

answer  WOODEN  LEG  ! 
Ef  they  aint  settisfied  with  thet,  an'  kin'  o' 

pry  an'  doubt  140 

An'  ax  fer  sutthin'  deffynit,  jest  say  ONE 

EYE  PUT  OUT  ! 

Thet   kin'  o'    talk  I  guess   you  '11   find  '11 

answer  to  a  charm, 
An'  wen  you  're  druv  tu  nigh  the  wall,  hoi' 

up  my  missin'  arm; 
Ef  they  should  nose  round  fer  a  pledge,  put 

on  a  vartoous  look 
An'  tell  'em  thet 's  percisely  wut  I  never 

gin  nor  —  took  ! 

Then   you    can    call   me  '  Timbertoes,'  — 
thet 's  wut  the  people  likes ; 


Sutthin'  combinin'  morril  truth  with  phrases 

sech  .ez  strikes; 
Some  say  the  people  's  fond  o'  this,  or  thet, 

or  wut  you  please,  — 
I  tell  ye  wut  the  people  want  is  jest  correct 

idees; 
'  Old  Timbertoes,'  you  see,  's  a  creed  it  's 

safe  to  be  quite  bold  on,  150 

There  's  nothin'  in  't  the  other  side  can  any 

ways  git  hold  on; 

It 's  a  good  tangible  idee,  a  sutthin'  to  embody 
Thet  valooable  class  o'  men  who  look  thru 

brandy-toddy ; 
It  gives  a  Party  Platform,  tu,  jest  level 

with  the  mind 
Of    all   right-thinkin',    honest   folks   thet 

mean  to  go  it  blind; 
Then  there  air  other  good  hooraws  to  dror 

on  ez  you  need  'em, 
Sech  ez   the   ONE-EYED   SLARTERER,   the 

BLOODY  BIRDOFREDUM: 
Them 's  wut  takes  hold  o'  folks  thet  think, 

ez  well  ez  o'  the  masses, 
An'  makes  you  sartin  o'  the  aid  o'   good 

men  of  all  classes. 

There  's  one  thing  I  'm  in  doubt  about;  in 

order  to  be  Presidunt,  160 

It 's  absolutely  ne'ssary  to  be  a  Southern 

residunt; 
The  Constitution  settles  thet,  an'  also  thet 

a  feller 
Must  own  a  nigger  o'  some  sort,  jet  black, 

or  brown,  or  yeller.    , 
Now  I  haint  no  objections  agin  particklar 

climes, 
Nor  agin  ownin'  anythin'  (except  the  truth 

sometimes), 
But,  ez  I  haint  no  capital,  up  there  among 

ye,  maybe, 
You  might  raise  funds  enough  fer  me  to 

buy  a  low-priced  baby, 
An'  then  to  suit  the  No'thern  folks,  who 

feel  obleeged  to  say 
They  hate  an'  cus  the  very  thing  they  vote 

fer  every  day, 
Say  you  're  assured  I  go  full  but  fer  Lib- 

baty's  diffusion  170 

An'  made  the  purchis  on'y  jest  to  spite  the 

Institootion ;  — 
But,  golly  !  there  's  the  currier's  boss  upon 

the  pavement  pawin'  ! 
I  '11  be  more  'xplicit  in  my  next. 

Yourn,      BIRDOFREDUM  SAWIN. 
July  6,  1848. 


440 


CHIEF   AMERICAN  POETS 


A   FABLE   FOR   CRITICS1 


Reader  !  -walk  up  at  once  (it  -will  soon  be  too  late), 
and  buy  at  a  perfectly  ruinous  rate 

A  FABLE  FOR  CRITICS  : 

OR,  BETTER, 

(I  LIKE,  AS  A  THING  THAT  THE  READER'S  FIRST 
FANCY  MAY  STRIKE,  AN  OLD-FASHIONED  TITLE- 
PAGE,  SUCH  AS  PRESENTS  A  TABULAR  VIEW  OF 
THE  VOLUME'S  CONTENTS), 

A  GLANCE  AT  A  FEW  OF  OUR  LIT- 
ERARY PROGENIES 

(MRS.   MALAPROP'S   WORD) 
FROM  THE  TUB  OF  DIOGENES  ; 

A  VOCAL   AND   MUSICAL   MEDLEY, 

THAT  IS, 
A  SERIES  OF  JOKES 


WHO    ACCOMPANIES    HIMSELF    WITH    A    RUB-A- 

DUB-DUB,  FULL   OF  SPIRIT  AND  GRACE,  ON  THE 

TOP   OF   THE   TUB. 

Set  forth  in  October,  the  -$\st  day, 
In  the  year  '48,  G.  P.  Putnam,  Broadway. 


1  This  jeu  <f 'esprit  was  extemporized,  I  may  fairly 
say,  so  rapidly  was  it  written,  purely  for  my  own 
amusement  and  with  no  thought  of  publication.  I  sent 
daily  instalments  of  it  to  a  friend  in  New  York,  the 
late  Charles  F.  Briggs.  He  urged  me  to  let  it  be 
printed,  and  I  at  last  consented  to  its  anonymous 
publication.  The  secret  was  kept  till  after  several  per- 
sons had  laid  claim  to  its  authorship.  (LOWELL.) 

On  the  writing  of  the  '  Fable,'  its  progress  from  week 
to  week,  and  Lowell's  presentation  of  the  copyright  to 
his  friend  Briggs,  see  Scudder's  Life  of  Lowell,  vol.  i, 
pp.  238-255. 

Holmes  said  of  it :  '  It  is  capital  —  crammed  full  and 
rammed  down  hard  — powder  (lots  of  it)  — shot  slugs 

—  bullets  —  very  little  wadding,  and  that  is  gun-cotton 

—  all  crowded  into  a  rusty  looking  sort  of  a  blunder- 
buss barrel  as  it  were  —  capped  with  a  percussion  pre- 
face—and cocked  with  a  title-page  as  apropos  as  a 
wink  to  a  joke.'     (Morse's  Life  of  Holmes,  TO!,  ii,  p. 
107.) 

The  original  title-page  is  given  above. 


It  being   the    commonest  mode  of  proce- 
dure, I  premise  a  few  candid  remarks 

To  THE  READER:  — 

This  trifle,  begun  to  please  only  myself 
and  my  own  private  fancy,  was  laid  on  the 
shelf.  But  some  friends,  who  had  seen  it, 
induced  me,  by  dint  of  saying  they  liked  it, 
to  put  it  in  print.  That  is,  having  come  to 
that  very  conclusion,  I  asked  their  advice 
when  't  would  make  no  confusion.  For 
though  (in  the  gentlest  of  ways)  they  had 
hinted  it  was  scarce  worth  the  while,  I 
should  doubtless  have  printed  it. 

I  began  it,  intending  a  Fable,  a  frail, 
slender  thing,  rhyme-ywinged,  with  a  sting 
in  its  tail.  But,  by  addings  and  alterings 
not  previously  planned,  digressions  chance- 
hatched,  like  birds'  eggs  in  the  sand,  and 
dawdlings  to  suit  every  whimsey's  demand 
(always  freeing  the  bird  which  I  held  in 
my  hand,  for  the  two  perched,  perhaps  out 
of  reach,  in  the  tree),  —  it  grew  by  degrees 
to  the  size  which  you  see.  I  was  like  the 
old  woman  that  carried  the  calf,  and  my 
neighbors,  like  hers,  no  doubt,  wonder  and 
laugh;  and  when,  my  strained  arms  with 
their  grown  burthen  full,  I  call  it  my  Fable, 
they  call  it  a  bull. 

Having  scrawled  at  full  gallop  (as  far  as 
that  goes)  in  a  style  that  is  neither  good 
verse  nor  bad  prose,  and  being  a  person 
whom  nobody  knows,  some  people  will  say 
I  am  rather  more  free  with  my  readers 
than  it  is  becoming  to  be,  that  I  seem  to 
expect  them  to  wait  on  my  leisure  in  fol- 
lowing wherever  I  wander  at  pleasure, 
that,  in  short,  I  take  more  than  a  young 
author's  lawful  ease,  and  laugh  in  a  queer 
way  so  like  Mephistopheles,  that  the  Pub- 
lic will  doubt,  as  they  grope  through  my 
rhythm,  if  in  truth  I  am  making  fun  of 
them  or  with  them. 

So  the  excellent  Public  is  hereby  assured 
that  the  sale  of  my  book  is  already  secured. 
For  there  is  not  a  poet  throughout  the 
whole  land  but  will  purchase  a  copy  or  two 
out  of  hand,  in  the  fond  expectation  of 
being  amused  in  it,  by  seeing  his  betters 
cut  up  and  abused  in  it.  Now,  I  find,  by  a 
pretty  exact  calculation,  there  are  some- 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


'441 


thing  like  ten  thousand  bards  in  the  nation, 
of  that  special  variety  whom  the  Review 
and  Magazine  critics  call  lofty  and  true,  and 
about  thirty  thousand  (this  tribe  is  increas- 
ing) of  the  kinds  who  are  termed  full  of 
promise  and  pleasing.  The  Public  will  see 
by  a  glance  at  this  schedule,  that  they  can- 
not expect  me  to  be  over-sedulous  about 
courting  them,  since  it  seems  I  have  got 
enough  fuel  made  sure  of  for  boiling  my  pot. 

As  for  such  of  our  poets  as  find  not 
their  names  mentioned  once  in  my  pages, 
with  praises  or  blames,  let  them  SEND  IN 
THEIR  CARDS,  without  further  DELAY,  to 
my  friend  G.  P.  PUTNAM,  Esquire,  in 
Broadway,  where  a  LIST  will  be  kept  with 
the  strictest  regard  to  the  day  and  the  hour 
of  receiving  the  card.  Then,  taking  them 
up  as  I  chance  to  have  time  (that  is,  if 
their  names  can  be  twisted  in  rhyme),  I 
will  honestly  give  each  his  PROPER  POSI- 
TION, at  the  rate  of  ONE  AUTHOR  to  each 
NEW  EDITION.  Thus  a  PREMIUM  is  of- 
fered sufficiently  HIGH  (as  the  magazines 
say  when  they  tell  their  best  lie)  to  induce 
bards  to  CLUB  their  resources  and  buy  the 
balance  of  every  edition,  until  they  have  all 
of  them  fairly  been  run  through  the  mill. 

One  word  to  such  readers  (judicious  and 
wise)  as  read  books  with  something  behind 
the  mere  eyes,  of  whom  in  the  country, 
perhaps,  there  are  two,  including  myself, 
gentle  reader,  and  you.  All  the  characters 
sketched  in  this  slight  jeu  d'  esprit,  though, 
it  may  be,  they  seem,  here  and  there, 
rather  free,  and  drawn  from  a  somewhat 
too  cynical  standpoint,  are  meant  to  be 
faithful,  for  that  is  the  grand  point,  and 
none  but  an  owl  would  feel  sore  at  a  rub 
from  a  jester  who  tells  you,  without  any 
subterfuge,  that  he  sits  in  Diogenes'  tub. 

PHCEBUS,  sitting  one  day  in  a  laurel-tree's 

shade, 
Was  reminded  of  Daphne,  of  whom  it  was 

made, 
For  the  god  being  one  day  too  warm  in  his 

Wl 


She  took  to  the  tree  to  escape  his  pursuing; 
Be  the  cause  what  it  might,  from  his  offers 

she  shrunk, 
A.nd,   Ginevra-like,   shut  herself  up   in   a 

trunk; 
And,  though  't  was  a  step  into  which  he 

had  driven  her, 


He  somehow  or  other  had  never  forgiven 

her; 

Her  memory  he  nursed  as  a  kind  of  a  tonic, 
Something'  bitter  to  chew  when  he  'd  play 

the  Byronic,  10 

And  I  can't  count   the   obstinate  nymphs 

that  he  brought  over 
By  a  strange  kind  of  smile  he  put  on  when 

he  thought  of  her. 

'  My  case  is  like  Dido's,'  he  sometimes  re- 
marked ; 
'  When  I  last  saw  my  love,  she  was  fairly 

embarked 
In  a  laurel,  as  she  thought  —  but  (ah,  how 

Fate  mocks !) 

She  has  found  it  by  this  time  a  very  bad  box; 
Let  hunters  from  me  take  this  saw  when 

they  need  it,  — 
You  're  not  always  sure  of  your  game  when 

you  've  treed  it. 
Just  conceive  such  a  change  taking  place 

in  one's  mistress ! 
What  romance  would  be  left  ?  —  who  can 

flatter  or  kiss  trees  ?  20 

And,  for  mercy's  sake,  how  could  one  keep 

up  a  dialogue 
With  a  dull  wooden  thing  that  will  live 

and  will  die  a  log,  — 
Not  to  say  that  the  thought  would  forever 

intrude 
That  you  've  less  chance  to  win   her   the 

more  she  is  wood  ? 
Ah  !  it  went  to  my  heart,  and  the  memory 

still  grieves, 
To  see  those  loved  graces  all  taking  their 


Those  charms  beyond  speech,  so  enchanting 

but  now, 
As  they  left  me  forever,  each  making  its 

bough  ! 
If  her  tongue  had  a  tang  sometimes  more 

than  was  right, 
Her  new  bark  is  worse  than  ten  times  her 

old  bite.'  30 


Apollo  looked  up,  hearing  footsteps  ap- 
proaching, 
And  slipped  out  of  sight  the  new  rhymes 

he  was  broaching,  — 
'  Good  day,  Mr.  D ,l  I  'm  happy  to  meet 

1  Duyckinck.  Evert  A.  Duyckinck,  with  his  brother 
George  L.  Duyckinck,  published  a  '  Cyclopaedia  of 
American  Literature,  embracing  personal  and  critical 
notices  of  authors,  and  selections  from  their  writings.' 


442 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


With  a  scholar  so  ripe,  and  a  critic  so  neat, 

Who  through  Grub  Street  the  soul  of  a 
gentleman  carries; 

What  news  from  that  suburb  of  London 
and  Paris 

Which  latterly  makes  such  shrill  claims  to 
monopolize 

The  credit  of  being  the  New  World's  me- 
tropolis ? ' 

'  Why,  nothing  of  consequence,  save  this 

attack 
On  my  friend  there,  behind,  by  some  pitiful 

hack,  4o 

Who  thinks  every  national  author  a  poor 

one, 

That  is  n't  a  copy  of  something  that 's  for- 
eign, 
And  assaults  the  American  Dick —  ' 

'  Nay,  't  is  clear 
That  your  Damon  there  's  fond  of  a  flea  in 

his  ear, 
And,  if  no  one  else  furnished  them  gratis, 

on  tick 
He  would  buy  some  himself,  just  to  hear 

the  old  click; 
Why,  1   honestly   think,  if   some   fool   in 

Japan 
Should  turn  up  his  nose  at  the  "  Poems  on 

Man" 
(Which  contain  many  verses  as  fine,  by  the 

bye, 

As  any  that  lately  came  under  my  eye'),  50 
Your  friend  there  by  some  inward  instinct 

would  know  it, 
Would  get  it  translated,  reprinted,  and  show 

it; 
As  a  man  might  take  off  a  high  stock  to 

exhibit 
The  autograph  round  his  own  neck  of  the 

gibbet; 
Nor  would  let  it  rest  so,  but  fire  column 

after  column, 
Signed  Cato,  or  Brutus,  or  something  as 

solemn, 

By  way  of  displaying  his  critical  crosses, 
And  tweaking  that  poor  transatlantic  pro- 
boscis, 
His  broadsides  resulting  (this  last  there  's 

no  doubt  of) 
In  successively  sinking  the    craft  they  're 

fired  out  of.  60 

Now   nobody   knows   when   an   author    is 

hit, 
If  he  have  not  a  public  hysterical  fit; 


Let  him  only  keep  close  in  his  snug  garret's 

dim  ether, 
And  nobody  'd   think  of   his  foes  —  or  of 

him  either; 
If  an  author  have  any  least  fibre  of  worth 

in  him, 
Abuse  would  but  tickle  the  organ  of  mirth 

in  him; 
All  the  critics  on  earth  cannot  crush  with 

their  ban 
One  word  that 's  in  tune  with  the  nature  of 

•man.' 


'  But  stay,  here  comes  Tityrus  Griswold,1 

and  leads  on 
The  flocks  whom  he  first  plucks  alive,  and 

then  feeds  on,  —  70 

A  loud-cackling  swarm,  in  whose  feathers 

warm  drest, 
He  goes  for  as   perfect  a  —  swan   as  the 

rest. 

'  There  comes  Emerson  first,  whose  rich 

words,  every  one, 

Are  like  gold  nails  in  temples  to  hang  tro- 
phies on, 
Whose   prose   is   grand   verse,    while    his 

verse,  the  Lord  knows, 
Is   some   of   it   pr —     No,  't   is   not   even 

prose; 
I  'm  speaking  of  metres ;  some  poems  have 

welled 
From  those  rare  depths  of  soul  that  have 

ne'er  been  excelled; 
They  're  not  epics,  but  that  does  n't  matter 

a  pin, 

In  creating,  the  only  hard  thing 's  to  begin ; 
A  grass-blade  's  no  easier  to  make  than  an 

oak ;  8 1 

If   you  've   once   found   the   way,   you  've 

achieved  the  grand  stroke; 
In  the  worst  of  his  poems  are  mines  of  rich 

matter, 
But  thrown  in  a  heap  with  a  crash  and  a 

clatter; 

Now  it  is  not  one  thing  nor  another  alone 
Makes   a   poem,    but    rather   the   general 

tone, 
The    something     pervading,    uniting    the 

whole, 
The  before  unconceived,  unconceivable  soul, 

1  Rev.  R.  W.  Griswold  published  in  1842  The  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  America,  in  1S4'i  Thf  Prose  Writers  of 
America,  and  in  1848  The  Female  Poels  of  America. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


443 


So  that  just  in  removing  this  trifle  or  that, 
you 

Take  away,  as  it  were,  a  chief  limb  of  the 
statue ;  90 

Roots,  wood,  bark,  and  leaves  singly  per- 
fect may  be, 

But,  clapt  hodge-podge  together,  they 
don't  make  a  tree. 

'  But,  to  come  back  to  Emerson  (whom, 

by  the  way, 
I  believe  we  left  waiting),  —  his  is,  we  may 

say. 
A  Greek  head  on  right  Yankee  shoulders, 

whose  range 
Has  Olympus  for  one  pole,  for  t'  other  the 

Exchange ; 
He  seems,  to  my  thinking  (although  I  'm 

afraid 
The  comparison  must,  long  ere  this,  have 

been  made), 

A   Plotiuus-Montaigne,  where   the    Egyp- 
tian's gold  mist 
And  the  Gascon's  shrewd  wit  cheek-by-jowl 

coexist;  100 

All  admire,  and  yet  scarcely  six  converts 

he  *s  got 
To  I  don't  (nor  they  either)  exactly  know 

what; 
For  though  he  builds  glorious  temples,  't  is 

odd 
He   leaves  never  a  doorway  to   get  in  a 

god. 
'T  is  refreshing  to  old-fashioned  people  like 

me 

To  meet  such  a  primitive  Pagan  as  he, 
In  whose  mind  all  creation  is  duly  respected 
As  parts  of  himself  —  just  a  little  projected ; 
And  who  's  willing  to  worship  the  stars  and 

the  sun, 

A  convert  to  —  nothing  but  Emerson.       no 
So  perfect  a  balance  there  is  in  his  head, 
That  he  talks  of  things  sometimes  as  if  they 

were  dead; 
Life,  nature,  love,  God,  and  affairs  of  that 

sort, 

He  looks  at  as  merely  ideas;  in  short, 
As  if  they  were  fossils    stuck  round  in  a 

cabinet, 
Of  such  vast  extent  that  our  earth 's  a  mere 

dab  in  it; 

Composed  just  as  he  is  inclined  to  conjec- 
ture her, 
Namely,  one  part  pure  earth,  ninety-nine 

parts  pure  lecturer; 


You  are  filled  with  delight  at  his  clear  de- 
monstration, 

Each  figure,  word,  gesture,  just  fits  the 
occasion,  120 

With  the  quiet  precision  of  science  he  '11 
sort  'em, 

But  you  can't  help  suspecting  the  whole  a 
post  mortem. 

'There  are   persons,  mole-blind   to  the 

soul's  make  and  style, 
Who  insist  on  a  likeness   'twixt  him  and 

Carlyle; 
To  compare  him  with  Plato  would  be  vastly 

fairer, 
Carlyle's   the   more   burly,   but  E.   is  the 

rarer; 
He  sees  fewer  objects,  but  clearlier,  true- 

lier, 

If  C.  's  as  original,  E.  's  more  peculiar; 
That  he  's  more  of  a  man  you  might  say  of 

the  one, 

Of  the  other  he  's  more  of  an  Emerson;  130 
C.  's  the   Titan,  as  shaggy  of  mind  as  of 

limb,  — 

E.  the  clear-eyed  Olympian,  rapid  and  slim; 
The  one  's  two  thirds  Norseman,  the  other 

half  Greek, 
Where    the    one 's   most    abounding,    the 

other  's  to  seek; 
C.'s   generals  require    to   be    seen   in   the 

mass,  — 
E.'s    specialties   gain   if  enlarged    by  the 


C.  gives  nature  and  God  his  own  fits  of 

the  blues, 

And  rims  common-sense  things  with  mys- 
tical hues,  — 

E.  sits  in  a  mystery  calm  and  intense, 
And  looks  coolly  around  him  with  sharp 

common-sense;  140 

C.  shows  you  how  every-day  matters  unite 
With   the    dim    transdiurnal    recesses   of 

night,— 

While  E.,  in  a  plain,  preternatural  way, 
Makes  mysteries  matters  of   mere  every 

day; 
C.  draws  all  his  characters  quite  a  la  Fu- 

seli,  — 
Not  sketching  their  bundles  of  muscles  and 

thews  illy, 
He   paints  with  a  brush  so  untamed  and 

profuse 
They  seem  nothing  but  bundles  of  muscles 

and  thews; 


444 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


E.  is  rather  like  Flaxman,  lines  strait  and 

severe, 
And  a  colorless  outline,  but  full,  round,  and 

clear; —  150 

To  the  men  he  thinks  worthy  he  frankly 

accords 
The   design  of  a  white  marble  statue  in 

words. 

C.  labors  to  get  at  the  centre,  and  then 
Take  a  reckoning  from  there  of  his  actions 

and  men; 
E.   calmly    assumes    the    said    centre    as 

granted, 
And,  given  himself,  has  whatever  is  wanted. 

'  He  has  imitators  in  scores,  who  omit 
No  part  of  the  man  but  his  wisdom  and 

wit,— 
Who  go  carefully  o'er  the  sky-blue  of  bis 

brain, 
And  when  he  has  skimmed  it  once,  skitn  it 

again;  160 

If  at  all  they  resemble  him,  you  may  be  sure 

it  is 
Because  their  shoals  mirror  his  mists  and 

obscurities, 
As  a  mud-puddle  seems  deep  as  heaven  for 

a  minute, 
While  a  cloud  that  floats  o'er  is  reflected 

within  it. 

'  There  comes ,  for  instance ;  to  see 

him  's  rare  sport, 

Tread  in  Emerson's  tracks  with  legs  pain- 
fully short; 
How  he  jumps,  how  he  strains,  and  gets  red 

in  the  face, 
To  keep  step  with  the  mystagogue's  natural 

pace  ! 

He  follows  as  close  as  a  stick  to  a  rocket, 
His   fingers  exploring   the    prophet's  each 

pocket.  170 

Fie,  for  shame,  brother  bard;  with  good  fruit 

of  your  own, 
Can't  you  let  Neighbor  Emerson's  orchards 

alone  ? 
Besides,  't  is  no  use,  you  11  not  find  e'en  a 

core,  — 

has  picked  up  all  the  windfalls  before. 

They  might  strip  every  tree,  and  E.  never 

would  catch  'em, 
His   Hesperides   have  no  rude  dragon  to 

watch  'em; 
When  they  send  him  a  dishful,  and  ask  him 

to  try  'em, 


He  never  suspects  how  the  sly  rogues  came 

by  'em; 
He  wonders  why  't  is  there  are  none  such 

his  trees  on, 
And  thinks  'em  the  best  he  has  tasted  this 


4  There  is  Bryant, 1  as  quiet,  as  cool,  and 
as  dignified, 

As  a  smooth,  silent  iceberg,  that  never  is 
ignified, 

Save  when  by  reflection  't  is  kindled  o' 
nights 

With  a  semblance  of  flame  by  the  chill 
Northern  Lights. 

He  may  rank  (Griswold  says  so)  first  bard 
of  your  nation 

(There  's  no  doubt  that  he  stands  in  su- 
preme iceolation), 

Your  topmost  Parnassus  he  may  set  his 
heel  on, 

But  no  warm  applauses  come,  peal  follow- 
ing peal  on, : — 

He 's  too  smooth  and  too  polished  to  hang 
any  zeal  on: 

Unqualified  merits,  I  '11  grant,  if  you 
choose,  he  has  'em,  J9o 

But  he  lacks  the  one  merit  of  kindling 
enthusiasm ; 

If  he  stir  you  at  all,  it  is  just,  op  my  soul, 

Like  being  stirred  up  with  the  very  North 
Pole. 

'He  is  very  nice  reading  in  summer, 
but  inter 

Nos,  we  don't  want  extra  freezing  in  winter; 

Take  him  up  in  the  depth  of  July,  my  ad- 
vice is, 

1  Compare  three  passages  in  Lowell's  Letters  (quoted 
by  permission  of  Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers) :  — 

'  The  Bryant  is  funny,  and  as  fair  as  I  could  make  it, 
immitigably  just.  Indeed  I  have  endeavored  to  be  so 
in  all.  .  .  .  The  only  verses  I  shall  add  regarding  him 
are  some  complimentary  ones  which  I  left  for  a  happier 
mood  after  I  had  written  the  comic  part.'  .  .  .  May 
12,  1848.  See  the  whole  passage,  Lou-ell's  Letters,  vol. 
i,p.  131. 

'  I  am  quite  sensible  that  I  did  not  do  Mr.  Bryant 
justice  in  the  "  Fable."  But  there  was  no  personal  feel- 
ing in  what  I  said  —  though  I  have  regretted  what  I 
did  say  because  it  might  seem  personal.  I  am  now 
asked  to  write  a  review  of  his  poems  for  the  North 
American.  If  I  do,  I  shall  try  to  do  him  justice.'  Jan- 
uary 11,  1855;  vol.  i,  p.  221. 

'  I  am  all  the  gladder  I  wrote  my  poem  for  Bryant's 
birthday  ["On  Board  the  Seventy-Six,"]  —  a  kind  of 
palinode  to  what  I  said  of  him  in  the  "  Fable  for  Cri- 
tics," which  has  something  of  youth's  infallibility  in  it, 
or  at  any  rate  of  youth's  irresponsibility.'  February  9, 
1887.  See  the  whole  letter  (to  Mr.  Richard  Watson 
vifll's  Letters,  vol.  ii,  p.  334. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


445 


When  you  feel  an  Egyptian  devotion  to 

ices. 
But,  deduct   all   you  can,  there  's  enough 

that  's  right  good  in  him, 
He   has  a  true  soul   for  field,  river,  and 

wood  in  him; 
And  his  heart,  in  the  midst  of  brick  walls, 

or  where'er  it  is,  200 

Glows,  softens,  and  thrills  with  the  tender- 

est  charities  — 
To  you  mortals  that   delve  in  this  trade- 

ridden  planet  ? 
No,  to   old   Berkshire's   hills,   with   their 

limestone  and  granite. 
If  you  're  one  who  in  loco  (add  foco  here) 


You  will  get  of  his  outermost  heart  (as  I 

guess)  a  piece; 
But  you  'd  get  deeper  down  if  you  came  as 

a  precipice, 
And  would  break  the   last  seal  of  its  in- 

wardest  fountain, 
If  you  only  could  palm  yourself  off  for  a 

mountain. 

Mr.  Quivis,  or  somebody  quite  as  discerning, 
Some  scholar  who  's  hourly  expecting  his 

learning,  210 

Calls  B.  the  American  Wordsworth;  but 

Wordsworth 
May  be    rated  at   more  than  your  whole 

tuneful  herd  's  worth. 
No,  don't    be    absurd,  he  's   an   excellent 

Bryant; 
But,  my  friends,  you  '11  endanger  the  life 

of  your  client, 
By  attempting   to  stretch   him   up  into  a 

giant: 
If  you    choose    to    compare   him,  I  think 

there  are  two  per- 
-sons  fit     for    a   parallel  —  Thomson  and 

Cowper;  l 
I  don't  mean  exactly,  —  there  's  something 

of  each, 
There  's  T.'s  love  of  nature,  C.'s  penchant 

to  preach; 
Just  mix  up  their  minds  so  that  C.'s  spice 

of  craziness  220 

Shall  balance  and  neutralize  T.'s  turn  for 

laziness, 
And  it  gives  you  a  brain  cool,  quite  fric- 

tionless,  quiet, 

1  To  demonstrate  quickly  and  easily  bow  per- 
-versely  absurd  't  is  to  sound  this  name  Cowper, 
As  people  In  general  call  him  named  super, 
I    remark  that   he  rhymes  it   himself  with  horse- 


Whose  internal  police  nips  the  buds  of  all 
riot,  — 

A  brain  like  a  permanent  strait-jacket  put 
on 

The  heart  that  strives  vainly  to  burst  off  a 
button,  — 

A  brain  which,  without  being  slow  or  me- 
chanic, 

Does  more  than  a  larger  less  drilled,  more 
volcanic ; 

He  's  a  Cowper  condensed,  with  no  crazi- 
ness bitten, 

And  the  advantage  that  Wordsworth  be- 
fore him  had  written. 

'  But,    my   dear   little  bardlings,   don't 

prick  up  your  ears  230 

Nor  suppose  I  would  rank  you  and  Bryant 

as  peers; 

If  I  call  him  an  iceberg,  I  don't  mean  to  say 
There  is  nothing  in  that  which  is  grand  in 

its  way; 
He  is  almost  the  one  of  your  poets  that 

knows 
How  much  grace,  strength,  and  dignity  lie 

in  Repose; 
If  he  sometimes  fall  short,  he  is  too  wise 

to  mar 
His  thought's  modest  fulness  by  going  too 

far; 
T  would  be  well  if  your  authors  should  all 

make  a  trial 

Of  what  virtue    there   is   in    severe  self- 
denial, 
And  measure    their   writings   by  Hesiod's 

staff,  240 

Which  teaches  that  all  has  less  value  than 

half. 

'  There  is  Whittier,  whose  swelling  and 

vehement  heart 
Strains  the    strait  -  breasted    drab   of   the 

Quaker  apart, 
And  reveals  the  live   Man,   still  >  supreme 

and  erect, 
Underneath  the  bemummying  wrappers  of 

sect; 
There  was  ne'er  a  man  born  who  had  more 

of  the  swing 
Of  the  true  lyric  bard  and  all  that  kind  of 

thing; 
And  his  failures  arise  (though  he  seem  not 

to  know  it) 
From  the  very  same  cause  that  has  made 

him  a  poet,  — 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


A  fervor  of  mind  which  knows  no  separa- 
tion 250 

Twixt  simple  excitement  and  pure  inspira- 
tion, 

As  my  Pythoness  erst  sometimes  erred 
from  not  knowing 

If  't  were  I  or  mere  wind  through  her  tripod 
was  blowing; 

Let  his  mind  once  get  head  in  its  favorite 
direction 

And  the  torrent  of  verse  bursts  the  dams 
of  reflection, 

While,  borne  with  the  rush  of  the  metre 
along, 

The  poet  may  chance  to  go  right  or  go 
wrong, 

Content  with  the  whirl  and  delirium  of 
song; 

Then  his  grammar's  not  always  correct, 
nor  his  rhymes, 

And  he  's  prone  to  repeat  his  own  lyrics 
sometimes,  260 

Not  his  best,  though,  for  those  are  struck 
off  at  white-heats 

When  the  heart  in  his  breast  like  a  trip- 
hammer beats, 

And  can  ne'er  be  repeated  again  any  more 

Than  they  could  have  been  carefully  plot- 
ted before: 

Like  old  what  's-his-name'  there  at  the  bat- 
tle of  Hastings 

(Who,  however,  gave  more  than  mere 
rhythmical  bastings), 

Our  Quaker  leads  off  metaphorical  fights 

For  reform  and  whatever  they  call  human 
rights, 

Both  singing  and  striking  in  front  of  the  war, 

And  hitting  his  foes  with  the  mallet  of 
Thor;  270 

Anne  haec,  one  exclaims,  on  beholding  his 
knocks, 

Vestlsfilii  tui,  O  leather-clad  Fox  ? 

Can  that  be  thy  son,  in  the  battle's  mid  din, 

Preaching  brotherly  love  and  then  driving 
it  in 

To  the  brain  of  the  tough  old  Goliath  of  sin, 

With  the  smoothest  of  pebbles  from  Cas- 
taly's  spring 

Impressed  on  his  hard  moral  sense  with  a 
sling? 

'  All  honor  and  praise  to  the  right-hearted 

bard 

Who  was  true  to  The  Voice  when  such  ser- 
vice was  hard, 


Who  himself  was  so  free  he  dared  sing  for 

the  slave  280 

When  to  look  but  a  protest  in  silence  was 

brave ; 

All  honor  and  praise  to  the  women  and  men 
Who   spoke   out   for   the   dumb   and    the 

down-trodden  then  ! 
It   needs   not    to  name  them,  already  for 

each 
I  see   History   preparing   the    statue    and 

niche ; 
They  were  harsh,  but  shall  you  be  so  shocked 

at  hard  words 
Who   have  beaten  your  pruning-hooks  up 

into  swords, 
Whose  rewards  and  hurrahs  men  are  surer 

to  gain 
By  the  reaping  of  men  and  of  women  than 

grain? 
Why  should  you  stand  aghast  at  their  fierce 

wordy  war,  if  290 

You   scalp   one   another   for   Bank  or  for 

Tariff  ? 
Your  calling  them  cut-throats  and  knaves 

all  day  long 

Does  n't   prove   that   the  use  of  hard  lan- 
guage is  wrong; 
While  the  World's  heart  beats  quicker  to 

think  of  such  men 
As  signed  Tyranny's  doom  with  a  bloody 

steel-pen, 
While  on  Fourth-of-Julys  beardless  orators 

fright  one 

WTith  hints  at  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton, 
You  need  not  look  shy  at  your  sisters  and 

brothers 

Who  stab  with  sharp  words  for  the  free- 
dom of  others ; — 
No,  a  wreath,  twine  a  wreath  for  the  loyal 

and  true  300 

Who,  for  sake  of  the  many,   dared  stard 

with  the  few, 
Not  of  blood-spattered  laurel  for  enemies 

braved, 

But  of  broad,  peaceful  oak-leaves  for  citi- 
zens saved  ! 


'  There    is   Hawthorne,  with   genius   so 

shrinking  and  rare 
That  you  hardly  at  first  see  the  strength 

that  is  there; 

A  frame  so  robust,  with  a  nature  so  sweet, 
So  earnest,  so  graceful,  so  lithe  and  so  fleet, 
Is  worth  a  descent  from  Olympus  to  meet; 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


447 


'T  is  as  if  a  rough  oak  that  for  ages  had 

stood, 
With  his  gnarled  bony  branches  like  ribs  of 

the  wood,  310 

Should  bloom,  after  cycles  of  struggle  and 

scathe, 

With  a  single  anemone  trembly  and  rathe ; 
His  strength  is  so  tender,  his  wildness  so 

meek, 

That  a  suitable  parallel  sets  one  to  seek,  — 
He  's  a   John  Bunyan  Fouque",   a  Puritan 

Tieck; 
When  Nature  was  shaping  him, -clay  was 

not  granted 
For  making  so   full-sized  a   man   as   she 

wanted, 

So,  to  fill  out  her  model,  a  little  she  spared 
From  some  finer-grained  stuff  for  a  woman 

prepared, 
And  she  could  not  have  hit  a  more  excellent 

plan  320 

For  making  him  fully  and  perfectly  man. 


'  Here  's  Cooper,  who  's  written  six  vol- 
umes to  show 
He  's  as  good  as  a  lord :  well,  let 's  grant 

that  he  's  so; 

If  a  person  prefer  that  description  of  praise, 
Why,  a  coronet's  certainly   cheaper   than 

bays; 
But  he  need  take  no  pains  to  convince  us 

he  's  not 

(As  his  enemies  say)  the  American  Scott. 
Choose  any  twelve  men,  and  let  C.  read 

aloud 
That  one  of  his  novels  of  which  he  's  most 

proud, 
And  I  'd  lay  any  bet   that,  without  ever 

quitting  330 

Their  box,  they  'd  be  all,  to  a  man,  for  ac- 
quitting. 
He  has  drawn  you  one  character,  though, 

that  is  new, 
One  wildflower  he 's  plucked  that  is  wet 

with  the  dew 
Of  this  fresh  Western  world,  and,  the  thing 

not  to  mince, 
He  has  done  naught  but  copy  it  ill  ever 

since ; 

His  Indians,  with  proper  respect  be  it  said, 
Are  just  Natty  Bumppo,  daubed  over  with 

red, 
And  his  very  Long  Toms  are   the   same 

useful  Nat, 


Rigged  up  in  duck  pants  and  a  sou'wester 

hat 
(Though  once  in  a  Coffin,  a  good  chance 

was  found  340 

To  have  slipped  the  old  fellow  away  under- 
ground). 
All  his  other  men-figures  are  clothes  upon 

sticks, 

The  derniere  chemise  of  a  man  in  a  fix 
(As  a  captain  besieged,  when  his  garrison  's 

small, 
Sets  up  caps  upon  poles  to  be  seen  o'er  the 

wall) ; 
And  the  women  he  draws  from  one  model 

don't  vary, 

All  sappy  as  maples  and  flat  as  a  prairie. 
When  a  character  's  wanted,  he  goes  to  the 

task 
As    a    cooper   would   do   in   composing   a 

cask; 
He  picks  out  the  staves,  of  their  qualities 

heedful,  350 

Just  hoops  them  together  as  tight  as  is 

needful, 
And,  if  the  best  fortune  should  crown  the 

attempt,  he 
Has  made  at  the  most  something  wooden 

and  empty. 

'  Don't  suppose  I  would  underrate  Coop- 
er's abilities; 

If  I  thought  you  'd  do  that,  I  should  feel 
very  ill  at  ease ; 

The  men  who  have  given  to  one  character  life 

And  objective  existence  are  not  very  rife; 

You  may  number  them  all,  both  prose- 
writers  and  singers, 

Without  overrunning  the  bounds  of  your 
fingers, 

And  Natty  won't  go  to  oblivion  quicker  360 

Than  Adams  the  Parson  or  Primrose  the 
vicar. 

'There  is  one  thing  in  Cooper  I  like, 
too,  and  that  is 

That  on  manners  he  lectures  his  country- 
men gratis; 

Not  precisely  so  either,  because,  for  a 
rarity, 

He  is  paid  for  his  tickets  in  unpopularity. 

Now  he  may  overcharge  his  American  pic- 
tures, 

But  you  '11  grant  there  's  a  good  deal  of 
truth  in  his  strictures; 

And  I  honor  the  man  who  is  willing  to  sinK 


448 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Half  his  present  repute  for  the  freedom  to 

think, 
And,  when  he  has  thought,  be  his  cause 

strong  or  weak,  37o 

Will  risk  t'  other  half  for  the  freedom  to 

speak, 
Caring  naught  for  what  vengeance  the  mob 

has  in  store, 
Let  that  mob  be  the  upper  ten  thousand  or 

lower. 

'  There  are  truths  you  Americans  need  to 

be  told, 
And  it  never  '11  refute  them  to  swagger  and 

scold; 
John  Bull,   looking  o'er  the   Atlantic,  in 

choler 
At  your  aptness  for  trade,  says  you  worship 

the  dollar; 
But  to  scorn   such   eye-dollar-try 's   what 

very  few  do, 
And  John  goes  to  that  church  as  often  as 

you  do. 
No  matter  what  John  says,   don't   try   to 

outcrow  him,  38o 

'T  is  enough  to  go  quietly  on  and  outgrow 

him; 

Like  most  fathers,  Bull  hates  to  see  Num- 
ber One 

Displacing  Mmself  in  the  mind  of  his  son, 
And  detests  the   same  faults   in  himself 

he  'd  neglected 
When  he   sees  them  again  in  his   child's 

glass  reflected; 

To  love  one  another  you  're  too  like  by  half; 
If  he  is  a  bull,  you  're  a  pretty  stout  calf, 
And  tear  your  own  pasture  for  naught  but 

to  show 

What  a  nice  pair  of  horns  you  're  begin- 
ning to  grow. 

'There  are  one  or  two  things  I  should 
just  like  to  hint,  390 

For  you  don't  often  get  the  truth  told  you 
in  print; 

The  most  of  you  (this  is  what  strikes  all 
beholders) 

Have  a  mental  and  physical  stoop  in  the 
shoulders; 

Though  you  ought  to  be  free  as  the  winds 
and  the  waves, 

You've  the  gait  and  the  manners  of  run- 
away slaves; 

Though  you  brag  of  your  New  World,  you 
don't  half  believe  in  it; 


And  as  much  of   the   Old   as   is   possible 

weave  in  it; 
Your  goddess  of  freedom,  a  tight,  buxom 

girl, 
With  lips  like  a   cherry  and  teeth  like  a 

pearl, 
With  eyes  bold  as  Here's,  and  hair  floating 

iree,  400 

And  full  of  the  sun  as  the  spray  of  the  sea, 
Who  can  sing  at  a  husking  or  romp  at  a 

shearing, 
Who  can  trip   through  the   forests   alone 

without  fearing, 
Who  can  drive  home  the  cows  with  a  song 

through  the  grass, 
Keeps  glancing  aside  into  Europe's  cracked 


Hides  her  red  hands  in  gloves,  pinches  up 
her  lithe  waist, 

And  makes  herself  wretched  with  transma- 
rine taste; 

She  loses  her  fresh  country  charm  when 
she  takes 

Any  mirror  except  her  own  rivers  and 
lakes. 

'  You  steal  Englishmen's  books  and  think 
Englishmen's  thought,  410 

With  their  salt  on  her  tail  your  wild  eagle 
is  caught; 

Your  literature  suits  its  'each  whisper  and 
motion 

To  what  will  be  thought  of  it  over  the 
ocean ; 

The  cast  clothes  of  Europe  your  statesman- 
ship tries 

And  mumbles  again  the  old  blarneys  and 
lies;  — 

Forget  Europe  wholly,  your  veins  throb 
with  blood, 

To  which  the  dull  current  in  hers  is  but 
mud: 

Let  her  sneer,  let  her  say  your  experiment 
fails, 

In  her.  voice  there's  a  tremble  e'en  now 
while  she  rails, 

And  your  shore  will  soon  be  in  the  nature 
of  things  42° 

Covered  thick  with  gilt  drift-wood  of  cast- 
away kings, 

Where  alone,  as  it  were  in  a  Longfellow's 
Waif, 

Her  fugitive  pieces  will  find  themselves  safe. 

O  my  friends,  thank  your  god,  if  you  have 
one, that  he 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


449 


'Twixt  the  Old  World  and  you  set  the  gulf 
of  a  sea; 

Be  strong-backed,  brown-handed,  upright 
as  your  pines, 

By  the  scale  of  a  hemisphere  shape  your 
designs, 

Be  true  to  yourselves  and  this  new  nine- 
teenth age, 

As  a  statue  by  Powers,  or  a  picture  by  Page, 

Plough,  sail,  forge,  build,  carve,  paint, 
make  all  over  new,  430 

To  your  own  New- World  instincts  contrive 
to  be  true, 

Keep  your  ears  open  wide  to  the  Future's 
first  call, 

Be  whatever  you  will,  but  yourselves  first 
of  all, 

Stand  fronting  the  dawn  on  Toil's  heaven- 
scaling  peaks, 

And  become  my  new  race  of  more  practical 
Greeks.' 


Here  Miranda l  came  up,  and  said,  '  Phce- 
bus  !  you  know 

That  the  Infinite  Soul  has  its  infinite  woe, 

As  I  ought  to  know,  having  lived  cheek  by 
jowl, 

Since  the  day  I  was  born,  with  the  Infinite 
Soul; 

I  myself  introduced,  I  myself,  1  alone,     440 

To  my  Land's  better  life  authors  solely  my 
own, 

Who  the  sad  heart  of  earth  on  their  shoul- 
ders have  taken, 

Whose  works  sound  a  depth  by  Life's 
quiet  unshaken, 

Such  as  Shakespeare,  for  instance,  the 
Bible,  and  Bacon, 

Not  to  mention  my  own  works;  Time's 
nadir  is  fleet, 

And,  as  for  myself,  I  'm  quite  out  of  con- 
ceit '  — 

1  Margaret  Puller.  Lowell  wrote  to  Briggs,  March 
26,  1848 :  '  I  think  I  shall  say  nothing  about  Margaret 
Fuller  (though  she  offer  so  fair  a  target),  because  she 
has  done  me  an  ill-natured  turn.  I  shall  revenge  myself 
amply  upon  her  by  writing  better.  She  it  a  very  fool- 
ish, conceited  woman,  who  has  got  together  a  great  deal 
of  information,  but  not  enough  knowledge  to  save  her 
from  being  ill-tempered.  However,  the  temptation  may 
be  too  strong  for  me.  It  certainly  would  have  been  if 
she  had  never  said  anything  about  me.  Even  Maria 
thinks  I  ought  to  give  her  a  line  or  two.'  (LowelV* 
Letters,  vol.  i,  p.  128.  Quoted  by  permission  of  Messrs. 
Harper  and  Brothers.)  See  Margaret  Fuller's  Papers 
on  Literature  and  Art.  or  Greenslet's  Lowell,  p.  63 ; 
and  Poe's  review  of  the  Fable  for  Critics,  in  his  Works, 
vol.  liii,  pp.  166-175. 


'  Quite  out  of  conceit !   I  'm  enchanted  to 

hear  it,' 
Cried  Apollo  aside.    '  Who  'd  have  thought 

she  was  near  it  ? 
To  be  sure,  one  is  apt  to  exhaust  those 

commodities 
One  uses  too  fast,  yet  in  this  case  as  odd 

it  is  450 

As  if  Neptune  should  say  to  his  turbots 

and  whitings, 
"  I  'm  as  much  out  of  salt  as  Miranda's  own 

writings  " 
(Which,  as  she  in  her  own  happy  manner 

has  said, 
Sound  a  depth,  for  't  is  one  of  the  functions 

of  lead). 

She  often  has  asked  me  if  I  could  not  find 
A  place  somewhere  near  me  that  suited  her 

mind; 

I  know  but  a  single  one  vacant,  which  she, 
With  her  rare  talent  that  way,  would  fit  to 

aT. 

And  it  would  not  imply  any  pause  or  cessa- 
tion 

In  the  work  she  esteems  her  peculiar  voca- 
tion, —  460 
She  may  enter  on  duty  to-day,  if  she  chooses, 
And  remain  Tiring-woman  for  life  to  the 

Muses.' 


'  There  comes  Poe,  with  his  raven,  like 

Barnaby  Rudge, 
Three  fifths  of  him  genius  and  two  fifths 

sheer  fudge, 

Who  talks  like  a  book  of  iambs  and  pen- 
tameters, 
In  a  way  to  make  people  of  common  sense 

damn  metres, 
Who  has  written   some   things   quite   the 

best  of  their  kind, 
But  the  heart  somehow  seems  all  squeezed 

out  by  the  mind, 
Who—      But   hey-day!      What's  this? 

Messieurs  Mathews  and  Poe, 
You  must  n't  fling  mud-balls  at  Longfellow 

SO,  470 

Does  it  make  a  man  worse  that  his  charac- 
ter's  such 

As  to  make  his  friends  love  him  (as  you 
think)  too  much  ? 

Why,  there  is  not  a  bard  at  this  moment 
alive 

More  willing  than  he  that  his  fellows 
should  thrive; 


450 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


While  you  are  abusing  him  thus,  even  now 
He  would  help  either  one  of  you  out  of  a 

slough; 
You  may  say  that  he  's  smooth  and  all  that 

till  you  're  hoarse, 

But  remember  that  elegance  also  is  force; 
After   polishing   granite   as   much  as  you 

will, 
The  heart  keeps  its  tough  old  persistency 

still;  48o 

Deduct  all  you  can,  that  still  keeps  you  at 

bay; 
Why,  he  '11  live  till  men  weary  of  Collins 

and  Gray. 

I  'm  not  over-fond  of  Greek  metres  in  Eng- 
lish, 
To  me  rhyme  's  a  gain,  so  it  be  not  too  jin- 

glish, 
And  your  modern  hexameter  verses  are  no 

more 
Like  .Greek  ones  than  sleek  Mr.  Pope  is 

like  Homer; 
As  the  roar  of  the  sea  to  the  coo  of  a  pigeon 

is, 
So,  compared  to  your  moderns,  sounds  old 

Melesigenes; 
I  may  be  too  partial,  the  reason,  perhaps, 

o  't  is 
That  I  've  heard  the  old  blind  man  recite 

his  own  rhapsodies,  490 

And  my  ear  with  that  music  impregnate 

may  be, 
Like  the  poor  exiled  shell  with  the  soul  of 


Or  as  one  can't  bear  Strauss  when  his  na- 
ture is  cloven 

To  its  deeps  within  deeps  by  the  stroke  of 
Beethoven; 

But,  set  that  aside,  and  't  is  truth  that  I 
speak, 

Had  Theocritus  written  in  English,  not 
Greek, 

I  believe  that  his  exquisite  sense  would 
scarce  change  a  line 

In  that  rare,  tender,  virgin-like  pastoral 
Evangeline. 

That 's  not  ancient  nor  modern,  its  place  is 
apart 

Where  time  has  no  sway,  in  the  realm  of 
pure  Art,  500 

'T  is  a  shrine  of  retreat  from  Earth's  hub- 
bub and  strife 

As  quiet  and  chaste  as  the  author's  own 
life. 


1  What !  Irving  ?  thrice  welcome,  warm 
heart  and  fine  brain,  , 

You  bring  back  the  happiest  spirit  from 
Spain, 

And  the  gravest  sweet  humor,  that  ever 
were  there 

Since  Cervantes  met  death  in  his  gentle 
despair; 

Nay,  don't  be  embarrassed,  nor  look  so  be- 
seeching, 

I  sha'n't  run  directly  against  my  own 
preaching, 

And,  having  just  laughed  at  their  Raphaels 
and  Dante  s, 

Go  to  setting  you  up  beside  matchless  Cer- 
vantes; 510 

But  allow  me  to  speak  what  I  honestly 
feel,— 

To  a  true  poet-heart  add  the  fun  of  Dick 
Steele, 

Throw  in  all  of  Addison,  minus  the  chill, 

With  the  whole  of  that  partnership's  stock 
and  good-will, 

Mix  well,  and  while  stirring,  hum  o'er,  as 
a  spell, 

The  fine  old  English  Gentleman,  simmer  it 
well, 

Sweeten  just  to  your  own  private  liking, 
then  strain, 

That  only  the  finest  and  clearest  re- 
main, 

Let  it  stand  out  of  doors  till  a  soul  it  re- 
ceives 

From  the  warm  lazy  sun  loitering  down 
through  green  leaves,  520 

And  you  '11  find  a  choice  nature,  not  wholly 
deserving 

A  name  either  English  or  Yankee,  —  just 
Irving.' 


Here,    '  Forgive    me,    Apollo,'   I  cried, 

'  while  I  pour 
My  heart  out  to  my  birthplace: J    O  loved 

more  and  more 
Dear  Baystate,   from  whose  rocky  bosom 

thy  sons 
Should  suck  milk,  strong-will-giving,  brave, 

such  as  runs 

1  'The  only  passage  in  "  A  Fable  for  Critics  "  which 
he  [later]  dwelt  upon  with  genuine  delight  was  his 
apostrophe  to  Massachusetts,  and  that  is  almost  out  of 
key  with  the  rest  of  the  poem.'  (Scudder's  Life  of 
Lowell,  vol.  i,  p.  266.)  The  passage  should  now  be  read 
as  an  apostrophe  to  America  rather  than  to  Massachu- 
setts. It  is  far  more  true  of  the  West  than  of  New  Eng- 
land, and  of  America  as  a  whole  than  of  any  section. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


45' 


In  the  veins  of  old  Graylock  —  who  is  it 

that  dares 

Call  thee  pedler,  a  soul  wrapped  in  bank- 
books and  shares  ? 
It  is  false  !     She  's  a  Poet  !     I  see,  as  I 

write, 
Along  the  far  railroad    the  steam  -  snake 

glide  white,  530 

The  cataract-throb   of    her    mill-hearts  I 

hear, 
The  swift  strokes  of  trip-hammers  weary 

my  ear, 
Sledges  ring  upon  anvils,  through  logs  the 

saw  screams, 
Blocks  swing  to  their  place,  beetles  drive 

home  the  beams:  — 
It  is  songs  such  as  these  that  she  croons  to 

the  din 
Of  her  fast-flying   shuttles,  year   out  and 

year  in, 
While  from   earth's  farthest  corner  there 

comes  not  a  breeze 

But  wafts  her  the  buzz  of  her  gold-glean- 
ing bees: 
What  though  those  horn  hands  have  as  yet 

found  small  time 
For  painting  and  sculpture  and  music  and 

rhyme  ?  540 

These   will   come  in  due  order;  the  need 

that  pressed  sorest 
Was  to  vanquish  the  seasons,  the  ocean,  the 

forest, 
To    bridle    and    harness    the    rivers,    the 

steam, 
Making  those  whirl  her   mill-wheels,  this 

tug  in  her  team, 
To    vassalize     old     tyrant    Winter,     and 

make 
Him    delve    surlily   for  her  on  river  and 

lake;- 
When   this  New  World   was   parted,  she 

strove  not  to  shirk 
Her  lot  in  the  heirdom,  the  tough,  silent 

Work, 

The  hero-share  ever  from  Herakles  down 
To  Odin,  the    Earth's    iron    sceptre    and 

crown:         •  S5o 

Yes,  thou   dear,  noble    Mother !    if    ever 

men's  praise 
Could    be    claimed  for    creating    heroical 

lays, 
Thou    hast   won    it;    if    ever    the    laurel 

divine 
Crowned  the  Maker  and  Builder,  that  glory 

is  thine  ! 


Thy  songs  are  right  epic,  they  tell  how  tliis 
rude 

Rock-rib  of  our  earth  here  was  tamed  and 
subdued; 

Thou  hast  written  them  plain  on  the  face 
of  the  planet 

In  brave,  deathless  letters  of  iron  and 
granite ; 

Thou  hast  printed  them  deep  for  all  time; 
they  are  set 

From  the  same  runic  type-fount  and  alpha- 
bet S6o 

With  thy  stout  Berkshire  hills  and  the 
arms  of  thy  Bay,  — 

They  are  staves  from  the  burly  old  May- 
flower lay. 

If  the  drones  of  the  Old  World,  in  queru- 
lous ease, 

Ask  thy  Art  and  thy  Letters,  point  proudly 
to  these, 

Or,  if  they  deny  these  are  Letters  and 
Art, 

Toil  on  with  the  same  old  invincible 
heart; 

Thou  art  rearing  the  pedestal  broad-based 
and  grand 

Whereon  the  fair  shapes  of  the  Artist  shall 
stand, 

And  creating,  through  labors  undaunted 
and  long, 

The  theme  for  all  Sculpture  and  Painting 
and  Song  !  570 

'  But  my  good  mother  Baystate  wants  no 
praise  of  mine, 

She  learned  from  her  mother  a  precept  di- 
vine 

About  something  that  butters  no  parsnips, 
her  forte 

In  another  direction  lies,  work  is  her 
sport 

(Though  she  '11  curtsey  and  set  her  cap 
straight,  that  she  will, 

If  you  talk  about  Plymouth  and*red  Bun- 
ker's hill). 

Dear,  notable  goodwife  !  by  this  time  of 
night, 

Her  hearth  is  swept  neatly,  her  fire  burning 
bright, 

And  she  sits  in  a  chair  (of  home  plan  and 
make)  rocking, 

Musing  much,  all  the  while,  as  she  darns  on 
a  stocking,  580 

Whether  turkeys  will  come  pretty  high 
next  Thanksgiving, 


45  2 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Whether  flour  '11  be  so  dear,  for,  as  sure 

as  she  's  living, 
She  will   use  rye-and-injun  then,  whether 

the  pig 
By   this    time   ain't   got    pretty   tolerable 

big, 
And  whether   to   sell   it  outright  will   be 

best, 
Or  to  smoke  hams  and  shoulders  and  salt 

down  the  rest,  — 
At  this  minute,  she  'd  swop  all  my  verses, 

ah,  cruel ! 
For  the  last  patent  stove  that  is  saving  of 

fuel; 
So    I'll   just    let   Apollo   go   on,    for   his 

phiz 
Shows  I  've  kept  him  awaiting  too  long  as 

it  is.'  59° 

*  If  our  friend,  there,  who  seems  a  re- 
porter, is  done 

With  his  burst  of  emotion,  why,  /  will  go 
on,' 

Said  Apollo;  some  smiled,  and,  indeed,  I 
must  own 

There  was  something  sarcastic,  perhaps,  in 
his  tone:  — 

'  There 's     Holmes,    who    is    matchless 

among  you  for  wit; 
A   Leyden-jar  always  full-charged,   from 

which  flit 

The  electrical  tingles  of  hit  after  hit; 
In  long  poems  'tis  painful  sometimes,  and 

invites 
A  thought  of  the  way  the  new  Telegraph 

writes, 
Which  pricks  down  its  little  sharp  sentences 

spitefully  600 

As  if  you  got  more  than  you'd   title   to 

rightfully, 
And  you  find  yourself  hoping  its  wild  father 


Would  flame  in  for  a  second  and  give  you  a 
fright'ning. 

He  has  perfect  sway  of  what  I  call  a  sham 
metre, 

But  many  admire  it,  the  English  pentame- 
ter, 

And  Campbell,  I  think,  wrote  most  com- 
monly worse, 

With  less  nerve,  swing,  and  fire  in  the  same 
kind  of  verse, 


Nor  e'er  achieved  aught  in  't  so  worthy  of 

praise 
As   the  tribute  of   Holmes   to   the  grand 

Marseillaise. 
You  went  crazy  last   year  over   Bulwer's 

New  Timon; —  610 

Why,  if  B.,  to  the  day  of  his  dying,  should 

rhyme  on, 
Heaping  verses  on  verses  and  tomes  upon 

tomes, 
He  could  ne'er  reach  the   best   point  and 

vigor  of  Holmes. 
His  are  just  the  fine  hands,  too,  to  weave 

you  a  lyric 
Full  of  fancy,  fun,  feeling,  or  spiced  with 

satiric 
In  a  measure  so  kindly  you  doubt  if  the 

toes 
That  are  trodden  upon  are  your   own  or 

your  foes'. 

'  There  is  Lowell,  who  's  striving  Par- 
nassus to  climb 

With  a  whole  bale  of  isms  tied  together 
with  rhyme, 

He  might  get  on  alone,  spite  of  brambles 
and  boulders,  620 

But  he  can't  with  that  bundle  he  has  on  his 
shoulders, 

The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come  nigh 
reaching 

Till  he  learns  the  distinction  'twixt  singing 
and  preaching; 

His  lyre  has   some  chords  that  would  ring 


But  he  'd  rather  by  half  make  a  drum  of 

the  shell, 
And  rattle  away  till  he  's  old  as  Methusa- 

lem, 
At  the  head  of   a  march   to  the  last  new 

Jerusalem.' 


Here  Miranda  came  up  and  began,  '  As 

to  that  — ' 
Apollo  at  once  seized  his*  gloves,  cane,  and 

hat, 
And,   seeing    the    place     getting    rapidly 

cleared,  630 

I   too   snatched   my   notes   and  forthwith 

disappeared. 
1847-48.  1848 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


453 


THE   VISION   OF   SIR   LAUNFAL 


PRELUDE  TO  PART  FIRST2 

OVER  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away. 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list, 

And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for 

his  lay: 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  instrument 

Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws  his 

theme, 
First  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes  sent 

Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 

Not  only  around  our  infancy 

Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie ; 3  10 

Daily,  with  souls  that  crin{_ 

We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not. 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies; 

With    our    faint    hearts    the   mountain 

strives; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite; 

1  According  to  the  mythology  of  the  Romancers,  the 
San  Greal,  or  Holy  Grail,  was  the  cup  out  of  which 
Jesus  partook  of  the  Last  Supper  with  his  disciples.  It 
was  brought  into  England  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  and 
remained  there,  an  object  of  pilgrimage  and  adoration, 
for  many  years  in  the  keeping  of  his  lineal  descendants. 
It  was  incumbent  upon  those  who  had  charge  of  it  to 
be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and  deed;  but  one  of  the 
keepers  having  broken  this  condition,  the  Holy  Grail 
disappeared.  From  that  time  it  was  a  favorite  enter- 
prise of  the  knights  of  Arthur's  court  to  go  in  search  of 
it.  Sir  Galahad  was  at  last  successful  in  finding  it,  as 
may  be  read  in  the  seventeenth  book  of  the  Romance 
of  King  Arthur.  Tennyson  has  made  Sir  Galahad  the 
subject  of  one  of  the  most  exquisite  of  his  poems. 

The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  anything  so 
slight)  of  the  following  poem  is  my  own,  and,  to  serve 
its  purposes,  I  hare  enlarged  the  circle  of  competition 
in  search  of  the  miraculous  cup  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
include,  not  only  other  persons  than  the  heroes  of  the 
Round  Table,  but  also  a  period  of  time  subsequent  to 
the  supposed  date  of  King  Arthur's  reign.  (LOWELL.) 

J  Holmes  begins  a  poem  of  welcome  to  Lowell  on  his 
return  from  England:  — 

This  is  your  month,  the  month  of  '  perfect  days.' 
June  was  indeed  Lowell's  month.  Not  only  in  the 
famous  passage  of  this  '  Prelude,'  but  in  '  Under  the 
Willows'  (originally  called  'A  June  Idyl'),  '  Al 
Fresco '  (originally  '  A  Day  in  June '),  '  Sunthin'  in  the 
Pastoral  Line '  of  the  Biglow  Papers,  and  '  The  Night- 
ingale in  the  Study,'  he  has  made  it  peculiarly  his 

»  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  Infancy !  (WORDS- 
WORTH, in  the  fifth  stanza  of  the  '  Ode:  Intimations  of 
Immortality.') 

«  See  Lowell's  letter,  of  Sunday,  September  3,  1848, 
to  his  friend  C.  F.  Briggs. 


And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea.  20 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives 

us; 
The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die 

in, 
The   priest   hath  his  fee    who  comes  and 

shrives  us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in; 
At  the  devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold, 
Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of 

gold; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  task- 
ing: 

T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
T  is  only  God  may   be  had  for  the  ask- 
.ing;  3o 

No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days; 
Then  Heaven  tries  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays; 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An   instinct   within  it  that  reaches  and 
towers,  4o 

And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The   buttercup   catches   the   sun   in   its 

chalice, 

And  there 's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too 
mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves,  so 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters 

and  sings; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her 

nest,  — 

In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the 
best? 


454 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 

Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer, 
Into    every    bare    inlet  and    creek   and 
bay;  60 

Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  over- 
fills it, 

We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it; 

No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have 
been, 

'T  is  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are 
green; 

We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right 
well 

How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms 
swell; 

We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help 
knowing 

That  skies  are   clear    and   grass  is  grow- 
ing; 

The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 

That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near,        70 
That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams 
are  flowing, 

That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 

That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard 

And  if  the    breeze   kept   the    good   news 

back, 

For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack; 
We   could    guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's 

lowing,  — 

And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 
Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing  ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how;  80 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving; 
'T  is   as   easy   now    for    the   heart    to  be 

true 
As  for  grass  to  be   green  or   skies  to  be 

blue,  — 

'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living: 
Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 
In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no 

wake; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have 

shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache; 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth,        90 
And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and 

woe 

Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 
Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 


What  wonder  if  Sir  Lauufal  no1 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his 


PART    FIRST 

I 
'  MY  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 

And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail; 
Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread,         100 
Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come   a   vision 

true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew.' 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 


The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes, 
In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their 

knees,  no 

The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 
The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the 

trees: 

The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray: 
'Twas   the    proudest    hall    in   the   North 

Countree, 

And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be, 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree ; 
Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 
But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied; 
She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall,  121 

Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions 

tall 

Stretched  left  and  right, 
Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight; 
Green  and  broad  was  every  tent, 
And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 


The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 
Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight,  130 
In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot  over 
its  wall 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


455 


In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers 

long, 

And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  sheaf, 
Had   cast   them    forth:   so,   young    and 

strong, 

And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf, 
Sir   Launfal   flashed  forth  in   his   maiden 

mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  Grail. 


It   was   morning  on   hill  and    stream  and 
tre,e,  140 

And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart; 
Only  the  castle  moodily 
Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free, 

And  gloomed  by  itself  apart; 
The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up 
Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's  cup. 


As   Sir   Launfal   made  morn  through  the 

darksome  gate, 
He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the 

same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as 

he  sate; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came; 
The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a 
thrill,  ,5, 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  'gan  shrink 

and  crawl, 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature, 
Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer 

morn,  — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 


The  leper  raised   not  the  gold  from   the 

dust: 

'  Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust,         160 
Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door; 
That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can 

hold; 
He  gives  only  the  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty; 
But  he  who  gives  but  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which   runs   through    all    and    doth    all 
unite,  — 


The   hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole   of  his 
alms,  i7o 

The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness 
before.' 


PRELUDE   TQ   PART   SECOND  1 
I 

DOWN  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  moun- 
tain peak, 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers 

old; 

On  open  wold  and  hilltop  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 
I   And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's 

cheek; 

It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 
From  the   unleafed   boughs   and  .pastures 

bare;  iSo 

The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 
'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter' 

proof; 

All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 
He   groined   his   arches  and   matched   his 

beams ; 

Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars 
As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars: 
He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 
In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight; 
Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 
Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt, 
Long,   sparkling    aisles   of    steel-stemmed 

trees  i9i 

Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze ; 
Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 
But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew; 
Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 
With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf; 
Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 
For    the    gladness    of     heaven    to 

through,  and  here 


1  Last  night  ...  I  walked  to  Watertown  over  the 
snow  with  the  new  moon  before  me  and  a  sky  exactly 
like  that  in  Page's  evening  landscape.  Orion  was  rising 
behind  me,  and,  as  I  stood  on  the  hill  just  before  you 
enter  the  village,  the  stillness  of  the  fields  around  me 
was  delicious,  broken  only  by  the  tinkle  of  a  little  brook 
which  runs  too  swiftly  for  Frost  to  catch  it.  My  pic- 
ture of  the  brook  in  Sir  Launfal  was  drawn  from  it. 
But  why  do  I  send  you  this  description  —  like  the  bones 
of  a  chicken  I  had  picked  ?  Simply  because  I  was  so 
happy  as  I  stood  there,  and  felt  so  sure  of  doing  some- 
thing that  would  justify  iny  friends.  (LOWELL,  to 
Briggs,  in  a  letter  of  December,  1848,  just  after  the 
publication  of  Sir  Launfal.  Quoted  by  permission  of 
Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers.) 


456 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 
And    hung    them    thickly   with    diamond 
drops,  200 

That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and 

sun, 

And  made  a  star  of  every  one: 
No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 
Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice; 
Twas  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored 

lay 
In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer 

day, 

Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 
Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 
By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost.         210 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 
The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and 
jolly, 

And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly; 
Through   the   deep   gulf   of   the   chimney 

wide 

Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind;  220 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in 

fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own,  230 

Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 
Was    'Shelterless,    shelterless,    shelter- 
less ! ' 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like   a 

torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the 

porch, 
And  he  sat  in   the   gateway  and   saw  all 

night 

The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold. 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle 

old, 

Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 


PART    SECOND 


THERE  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree, 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly;    241 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 
For  the  weaver  Winter  its  shroud  had 

spun; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off   the 

cold  sun; 

Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 


Sir    Launfal    turned    from  his  own   hard 
gate,  250 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate  ; 
An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 
He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail; 
Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 
No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the 

cross, 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 
The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 


Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 
Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air, 
For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time;     260 
So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 
And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and 

snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long-ago; 
He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 
O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and 

small, 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one, 
He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 
As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 
To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 
The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the 

shade,  270 

And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played, 
And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 


'  For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms; ' 
The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 
But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsome 

thing, 

The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


457 


And   white   as   the   ice-isles   of   Northern 

seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 


And  Sir  Launfal  said,  '  I  behold  in  thee  280 
An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree; 
Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns, 
Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and 

scorns, 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 
The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side: 
Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me; 
Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  thee  ! ' 


Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his 

eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straight- 
way he 

Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise  290 
He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 

When  he  girt  his  young  life  up  in  gilded 
mail 

And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust; 

He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 

He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 

And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 

'T  was   a   mouldy  crust   of   coarse   brown 

bread, 
'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl,  — 

Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper 
fed,  3oo 

And  't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his 
thirsty  soul. 


As   Sir   Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast 

face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place ; 
The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 
But  stood  before  him  glorified, 
Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 
As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful 

Gate,  — 

.  Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 
Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 


His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves 

from  the  pine,  3JO 

And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on 
the  brine, 


That   mingle    their   softness  and  quiet  in 

one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float   down 

upon; 
And  the  voice  that  was  softer  than  silence 

said, 

'  Lo,  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid  ! 
In  many  climes,  without  avail, 
Thou   hast   spent   thy   life   for   the   Holy 

Grail; 

Behold,  it  is  here,  —  this  cup  which  thou 
Didst  fill   at  the   streamlet    for    me   but 

npw; 

This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee,    320 
This   water   his   blood    that   died   on   the 

tree; 

The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 
In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need; 
Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share, 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare; 
Who   gives    himself   with   his   alms  feeds 

three, 
Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  ine.' 

IX 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound: 
'  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  ! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall,        330 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail.' 


The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the    wanderer   is  welcome   to   the 

hall 
As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough; 

No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 
The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er; 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the 

door, 

She  entered  with  him  in  disguise,  340 

And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise; 
There  is   no   spot    she   loves   so  'well  on 

ground, 
She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year 

round ; 

The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command; 
And  there  's   no   poor   man   in  the  North 

Countree 
But  is  lord  of   the   earldom   as  much   as 

he. 
1848.  1848, 


458 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


BEAVER   BROOK1 

HUSHED  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill, 
And,  minuting  the  long  day's  loss, 

The  cedar's  shadow,  slow  and  still, 
Creeps  o'er  its  dial  of  gray  moss. 

Warm  noon  brims  full  the  valley's  cup, 
The  aspen's  leaves  are  scarce  astir; 

Only  the  little  mill  sends  up 
Its  busy,  never-ceasing  burr. 

Climbing  the  loose-piled  wall  that  hems 
The  road  along  the  mill-pond's  brink,  10 

From  'neath  the  arching  barberry-stems, 
My  footstep  scares  the  shy  chewink. 

Beneath  a  bony  buttonwood 

The  mill's  red  door  lets  forth  the  din; 
The  whitened  miller,  dust-imbued, 

Flits  past  the  square  of  dark  within. 

No  mountain  torrent's  strength  is  here; 

Sweet  Beaver,  child  of  forest  still, 
Heaps  its  small  pitcher  to  the  ear, 

And  gently  waits  the  miller's  will.         ao 

Swift  slips  Undine  along  the  race 

Unheard,  and  then,  with  flashing  bound, 

Floods  the  dull  wheel  with  light  and  grace, 
And,  laughing,  hunts  the  loath   drudge 
round. 

The  miller  dreams  not  at  what  cost 

The  quivering  millstones  hum  and  whirl, 

Nor  how  for  every  turn  are  tost 
Armfuls  of  diamond  and  of  pearl. 

But  Summer  cleared  my  happier  eyes 
With  drops  of  some  celestial  juice,        30 

To  see  how  Beauty  underlies 
Forevermore  each  form  of  use. 

And  more;  methought  I  saw  that  flood, 
Which  now  so  dull  and  darkling  steals, 

Thick,  here  and  there,  with  human  blood, 
To  turn  the  world's  laborious  wheels. 

1  The  little  mill  stands  in  a  valley  between  one  of  the 
spurs  of  Wellington  Hill  and  the  main  summit,  just  on 
the  edge  of  Waltham.  It  is  surely  one  of  the  loveliest 
spots  in  the  world.  It  is  one  of  my  lions,  and  if  you 
will  make  me  a  visit  this  spring  I  will  take  you  up  to 
hear  it  roar,  and  I  will  show  you  'the  oaks'— "the 
largest,  I  fancy,  left  in  the  country.  (LOWELL,  in  a 
letter  of  January  5,  1849.  Quoted  by  permission  of 
Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers.) 

The  poem  was  originally  called  '  The  Mill.' 


No  more  than  doth  the  miller  there, 
Shut  in  our  several  cells,  do  we 

Know  with  what  waste  of  beauty  rare 
Moves  every  day's  machinery.  40 

Surely  the  wiser  time  shall  come 
When  this  fine  overplus  of  might, 

No  longer  sullen,  slow,  and  dumb, 
Shall  leap  to  music  and  to  light. 

In  that  new  childhood  of  the  Earth 
Life  of  itself  shall  dance  and  play, 

Fresh  blood  in  Time's  shrunk  veins  make 

mirth, 
And  labor  meet  delight  half-way. 

1848.  1849. 


BIBLIOLATRES 

BOWING  thyself  in  dust  before  a  Book, 
And  thinking  the  great  God  is  thine  alone, 
O  rash  iconoclast,  thou  wilt  not  brook 
What  gods  the  heathen  carves  in  wood  and 

stone, 
As  if  the  Shepherd   who   from   the  outer 

cold 
Leads  all  his  shivering  lambs  to  one  sure 

fold 
Were  careful  for  the  fashion  of  his  crook. 

There  is  no  broken  reed  so  poor  and  base, 
No  rush,  the    bending   tilt   of    swamp-fly 

blue, 
But  He   therewith  the  ravening  wolf  can 

chase,  10 

And  guide  his  flock  to  springs  and  pastures 

new; 
Through  ways  unlooked  for,  and  through 

many  lands, 
Far  from  the  rich  folds  built  with  human 

hands, 
The  gracious  footprints  of  his  love  I  trace. 

And  what  art  thou,  own  brother  of  the  clod, 
That   from   his   hand   the   crook    wouldst 

snatch  away 

And  shake  instead  thy  dry  and  sapless  rod, 
To  scare  the  sheep  out  of  the  wholesome 

day? 
Yea,    what   art   thou,   blind,   vinconverted 

Jew, 

That  with  thy  idol-volume's  covers  two    20 
Wouldst  make  a  jail  to  coop   the    living 

God? 


JAMES    RUSSELL  LOWELL 


459 


Thou  hear'st  not  well  the  mountain  organ- 
tones 

By  prophet  ears  from  Hor  and  Sinai  caught, 

Thinking  the  cisterns  of  those  Hebrew 
brains 

Drew  dry  the  springs  of  the  All-knower's 
thought, 

Nor  shall  thy  lips  be  touched  with  living 
fire, 

Who  blow'st  old  altar-coals  with  sole  de- 
sire 

To  weld  anew  the  spirit's  broken  chains. 

God  is  not  dumb,  that  He  should  speak  no 
more; 

If  thou  hast  wanderings  in  the  wilder- 
ness 30 

And  find'st  not  Sinai,  't  is  thy  soul  is  poor ; 

There  towers  the  Mountain  of  the  Voice  no 
less, 

Which  whoso  seeks  shall  find,  but  he  who 
bends, 

Intent  on  manna  still  and  mortal  ends, 

Sees  it  not,  neither  hears  its  thundered 
lore. 

Slowly  the  Bible  of  the  race  is  writ, 

And  not   on  paper   leaves   nor  leaves  of 

stone ; 
Each  age,  each  kindred,  adds  a  verse  to 

it, 

Texts  of  despair  or  hope,  of  joy  or  moan. 
WThile    swings   the    sea,    while   mists    the 

mountains  shroud,  4o 

W'hile  thunder's  surges  burst  on  cliffs  of 

cloud, 
Still  at  the  prophets'  feet  the  nations  sit. 

1849. 


THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL  i 

THE  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

1  See  '  The  Changeling'  and  '  She  came  and  went.' 
In  sending  this  poem  to  the  Standard  Lowell  wrote : 
'  Print  that  as  if  you  loved  it.  Let  not  a  comma  be 
blundered.  Especially  I  fear  they  will  put  gleaming 
for  rjloaming  in  the  first  line  unless  you  look  to  it.  May 
you  never  have  the  key  which  shall  unlock  the  whole 
meaning  of  the  poem  to  you  ! '  (LoweWs  Letters,  Harper 
and  Brothers,  letter  of  December  22,  1849.) 


And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 
Came  Chanticleer's  muffled  crow,  10 

The  stiff  rails  softened  to  swan's-down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood; 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood.  20 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  '  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ?  ' 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall, 
And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 

That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 
When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 

That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow,      30 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  that  renewed  our  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 

'  The  snow  that  husheth  all, 
Darling,  the  merciful  Father 

Alone  can  make  it  fall !  ' 

Then,  with   eyes   that   saw  not,   I   kissed 
her; 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 

Folded  close  under  deepening  snow.      40 
1849.  *       1849. 


THE   SINGING    LEAVES 

A  BALLAD 

I 

'  WHAT  fairings  will  ye  that  I  bring  ?  ' 
Said  the  King  to  his  daughters  three  j 

'  For  I  to  Vanity  Fair  am  boun, 
Now  say  what  shall  they  be  ?  ' 


460 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Then  up  and  spake  the  eldest  daughter, 

That  lady  tall  and  grand: 
'  Oh,  bring  me  pearls  and  diamonds  great, 

And  gold  rings  for  my  hand.' 

Thereafter  spake  the  second  daughter, 
That  was  both  white  and  red:  10 

'  For  me  bring  silks  that  will  stand  alone, 
And  a  gold  comb  for  my  head.' 

Then  came  the  turn  of  the  least  daughter, 
That  was  whiter  than  thistle-down, 

\od  among  the  gold  of  her  blithesome  hair 
Dim  shone  the  golden  crown. 

1  There  came  a  bird  this  morning, 
And  sang  'neath  my  bower  eaves, 

Till  I  dreamed,  as  his  music  made  me, 
"  Ask  thou  for  the  Singing  Leaves." '   20 

Then  the  brow  of  the  King  swelled  crimson 

With  a  flush  of  angry  scorn: 
'  Well  have  ye  spoken,  my  two  eldest, 

And  chosen  as  ye  were  born; 

'  But  she,  like  a  thing  of  peasant  race, 
That  is  happy  binding  the  sheaves ; ' 

Then  he   saw   her  dead    mother    in    her 

face, 
And  said,  «  Thou  shalt  have  thy  leaves.' 


He  mounted  and  rode  three  days  and  nights 
Till  he  came  to  Vanity  Fair,  30 

And  't  was  easy  to  buy  the  gems  and  the 

silk, 
But  no  Singing  Leaves  were  there. 

Then  deep  in  the  greenwood  rode  he, 

And  asked  of  every  tree, 
'  Oh,  if  you  have  ever  a  Singing  Leaf, 

I  pray  you  give  it  me  ! ' 

But  the  trees  all  kept  their  counsel, 

And  never  a  word  said  they, 
Only  there  sighed  from  the  pine-tops 

A  music  of  seas  far  away.  40 

Only  the  pattering  %spen 

Made  a  sound  of  growing  rain, 

That  fell  ever  faster  and  faster, 
Then  faltered  to  silence  again. 

'Oh,  where  shall  I  find  a  little  foot-page 
That  would  win  both  hose  and  shoon, 


And  will  bring  to  me  the  Singing  Leaves 
If  they  grow  under  the  moon  ?  ' 

Then  lightly  turned  him  Walter  the  page, 
By  the  stirrup  as  he  ran:  5o 

'  Now  pledge  you  me  the  truesome  word 
Of  a  king  and  gentleman, 

'  That  you  will  give  me  the  first,  first  thing 

You  meet  at  your  castle-gate, 
And   the    Princess   shall   get   the   Singing 
Leaves, 

Or  mine  be  a  traitor's  fate.' 

The  King's  head  dropt  upon  his  breast 

A  moment,  as  it  might  be ; 
'T  will  be  my  dog,  he  thought,  and  said, 

'  My  faith  I  plight  to  thee.'  60 

Then  Walter  took  from  next  his  heart 

A  packet  small  and  thin, 
'  Now  give  you  this  to  the  Princess  Anne, 

The  Singing  Leaves  are  therein.' 


As  the  King  rode  in  at  his  castle-gate, 

A  maiden  to  meet  him  ran, 
And  '  Welcome,  father  ! '  she  laughed  and 
cried 

Together,  the  Princess  Anne. 

'  Lo,  here  the  Singing  Leaves,'  quoth  he, 
'  And  woe,  but  they  cost  me  dear  ! '  70 

She  took  the  packet,  and  the  smile 
Deepened  down  beneath  the  tear. 

It  deepened  down  till  it  reached  her  heart, 

And  then  gushed  up  again, 
And  lighted  her  tears  as  the  sudden  sun 

Transfigures  the  summer  rain. 

And  the  first  Leaf,  when  it  was  opened, 
Sang:  '  I  am  Walter  the  page, 

And  the  songs  I  sing  'neath  thy  window 
Are  my  only  heritage.'  80 

And   the   second   Leaf   sang:  '  But  in  the 
land 

That  is  neither  on  earth  nor  sea, 
My  lute  and  I  are  lords  of  more 

Than  thrice  this  kingdom's  fee.' 

And  the  third  Leaf  sang,   'Be  mine!  Be 

mine  ! ' 
And  ever  it  sang,  '  Be  mine  ! ' 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


461 


Then  sweeter  it  sang  and  ever  sweeter, 
And  said,  '  I  am  thine,  thine,  thine  ! ' 

At  the  first  Leaf  she  grew  pale  enough, 
At  the  second  she  turned  aside,  90 

At  the  third,  't  was  as  if  a  lily  flushed 
With  a  rose's  red  heart's  tide. 

'  Good  counsel  gave  the  bird,'  said  she, 

'  I  have  my  hope  thrice  o'er, 
For  they  sing  to  my  very  heart,'  she  said, 

'  And  it  sings  to  them  evermore.' 

She  brought  to  him  her  beauty  and  truth, 
But  and  broad  earldoms  three, 

And  he  made  her  queen  of  the  broader  lands 

He  held  of  his  lute  in  fee.  100 

1854. 


WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN 

MY  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there, 
Looks  through  the  side-light  of  the  door; 

I  hear  him  with  his  brethren  swear, 
As  I  could  do,  —  but  only  more. 

Flattening  his  nose  against  the  pane, 
He  envies  me  my  brilliant  lot, 

Breathes  on  his  aching  fists  in  vain, 
And  dooms  me  to  a  place  more  hot. 

He  sees  me  in  to  supper  go, 

A  silken  wonder  by  my  side,  10 

Bare  arms,  bare  shoulders,  and  a  row 

Of  flounces,  for  the  door  too  wide. 

He  thinks  how  happy  is  my  arm 

'Neath    its    white-gloved    and  jewelled 

load; 
And  wishes  me  some  dreadful  harm, 

Hearing  the  merry  corks  explode. 

Meanwhile  I  inly  curse  the  bore 
Of  hunting  still  the  same  old  coon, 

And  envy  him,  outside  the  door, 

In  golden  quiets  of  the  moon.  20 

The  winter  wind  is  not  so  cold 

As  the  bright  smile  he  sees  me  win, 

Nor  the  host's  oldest  wine  so  old 
As  our  poor  gabble  sour  and  thin. 

I  envy  him  the  ungy  ved  prance 

With  which  his  freezing  feet  he  warms, 


And  drag  my  lady's-chains  and  dance 
The  galley-slave  of  dreary  forms. 

Oh,  could  he  have  my  share  of  din, 
And  I  his  quiet !  —  past  a  doubt         3c 

'T  would  still  be  one  man  bored  within, 
And  just  another  bored  without. 

Nay,  when,  once  paid  my  mortal  fee, 
Some  idler  on  my  headstone  grim 

Traces  the  moss-blurred  name,  will  he 
Think  me  the  happier,  or  I  him  ? 

1854. 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN1 


THE  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 

Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane; 

She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 

A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 

And  said,  — '  Auf  wiedersehen  ! ' 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 

She  said,  —  '  Auf  wiedersehen  ! ' 

The    lamp's    clear    gleam    flits     up    the 
stair; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she,  —  fA  uf  wiedersehen .?'... 

'T  is  thirteen  years;  once  more  I  press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah,  yes, 
I  hear  '  Auf  wiedersehen  ! ' 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 

The    English    words    had    seemed    too 

fain, 

But  these  —  they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart; 
She  said, '  Auf  wiedersehen  !  ' 

1854. 


1  Mrs.  Lowell  died  October  27,  1853.  See  Longfel- 
low's '  The  Two  Angela,'  Scudder'  s  Life  of  Lowell, 
vol.  i,  pp.  356-362,  and  The  Poemt  of  Maria  White 
Lowell. 


462 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


PALINODE 


STILL  thirteen  years :  't  is  autumn  now 
On  field  and  hill,  in  heart  and  brain; 

The  naked  trees  at  evening  sough; 

The  leaf  to  the  forsaken  bough 
Sighs  not,  — '  Auf  wiedersehen  !  ' 

Two  watched  yon  oriole's  pendent  dome, 
That  now  is  void,  and  dank  with  rain, 

And  one,  —  oh,  hope  more  frail  than  foam  ! 

The  bird  to  his  deserted  home 
Sings  not,  — '  Auf  wiedersehen  I ' 

The  loath  gate  swings  with  rusty  creak; 

Once,  parting  there,  we  played  at  pain; 
There  came  a  parting,  when  the  weak 
And  fading  lips  essayed  to  speak 

Vainly,  — '  Auf  wiedersehen  ! ' 

Somewhere  is  comfort,  somewhere  faith, 

Though  thou  in  outer  dark  remain; 
One  sweet  sad  voice  ennobles  death, 
And  still,  for  eighteen  centuries  saith 
Softly,  — '  Auf  wiedersehen  ! ' 

If  earth  another  grave  must  bear, 

Yet  heaven  hath  won  a  sweeter  strain, 
And  something  whispers  my  despair, 
That,  from  an  orient  chamber  there, 
Floats  down,  '  Auf  wiedersehen  !  ' 

1854. 


THE   WIND-HARP  i 

I  TREASURE  in  secret  some  long,  fine  hair 
Of    tenderest    brown,   but    so   inwardly 

golden 

I  half  used  to  fancy  the  sunshine  there, 
So  shy,  so  shifting,  so  waywardly  rare, 
Was  only  caught   for   the  moment  and 
holdeu 

1  It  is  dreary  enough  sometimes,  for  a  mountain-peak 
on  whose  snow  your  foot  makes  the  first  mortal  print 


is  not  so  lonely  as  a  room  full  of  happy  faces  from 
ie  is  missing  forever.     This  was  originally  the 


vhich 


fifth  stanza  of  '  The  Windharp: '  — 

O  tress  !  that  so  oft  in  my  heart  hast  lain, 
Rocked  to  rest  within  rest  by  its  thnnkful  beating. 

Say,  which  is  harder  —  to  bear  the  pain 

Of  laughter  an.l  li-lit.  or  to  wnit  in  vain 
'Neath  the  unleaved  tree  tlie  impossible  meeting  ? 

If  Death's  lips  be  icy,  Life  gives,  iwis, 

Some  kisses  more  clay-cold  and  darkening  than  his  ! 

(LOWELL,  in  a  letter  of  December  7,  1854.) 


While   I   could  say  Dearest!  and   kiss   it, 

and  then 
In  pity  let  go  to  the  summer  again. 

I  twisted  this  magic  in  gossamer  strings 
Over  a  wind-harp's  Delphian  hollow; 
Then  called  to  the  idle  breeze  that  swings 
All  day  in  the  pine-tops,  and  clings,  and 

sings  1 1 

'Mid  the  musical  leaves,  and  said,  '  Oh, 

follow 
The  will  of   those  tears   that   deepen  my 

words, 
And   fly   to   my  window   to   waken   these 

chords.' 

So  they  trembled  to  life,  and,  doubtfully 
Feeling   their  way   to   my   sense,  sang, 
'  Say  whether 

They  sit  all  day  by  the  greenwood  tree, 

The  lover  and  loved,  as  it  wont  to  be, 
When  we  — '    But  grief  conquered,  and 
all  together 

They  swelled  such  weird  murmur  as  haunts 
a  shore  20 

Of    some    planet    dispeopled,  —  '  Never- 
more ! ' 

Then  from  deep  in  the  past,  as  seemed  to 

me, 

The  strings   gathered  sorrow  and  sang 
forsaken, 

'One   lover  still  waits    'neath   the   green- 
wood tree, 

But  't  is  dark,'  and  they  shuddered, '  where 

lieth  she 

Dark  and  cold  !     Forever  must  one  be 
taken  ? ' 

But  I  groaned,  '  O  harp  of  all  ruth  bereft, 

This    Scripture    is    sadder,  —  "  the   other 
left "  !  ' 

There  murmured,  as  if  one  strove  to  speak, 
And   tears   came  instead;   then  the  sad 

tones  wandered  30 

And  faltered  among  the  uncertain  chords 
In  a  troubled   doubt  between  sorrow  and 

words; 
At  last  with  themselves  they  questioned 

and  pondered, 
'  Hereafter  ?  —  who  knoweth  ?  '  and  so  they 

sighed 
Down  the  long  steps  that  lead  to  silence 

and  died. 
1854.  1854. 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


463 


AFTER  THE   BURIAL1 

YES,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor; 

When  skies  are  sweet  as  a  psalm, 
At  the  bows  it  lolls  so  stalwart, 

In  its  bluff,  broad-shouldered  calm. 

And  when  over  breakers  to  leeward 
The  tattered  surges  are  hurled, 

It  may  keep  our  head  to  the  tempest, 
With  its  grip  on  the  base  of  the  world. 

But,  after  the  shipwreck,  tell  me 

What  help  in  its  iron  thews,  10 

Still  true  to  the  broken  hawser, 

Deep  down  among  sea-weed  and  ooze  ? 

In  the  breaking  gulfs  of  sorrow, 
When  the  helpless  feet  stretch  out 

And  find  in  the  deeps  of  darkness 
No  footing  so  solid  as  doubt, 

Then  better  one  spar  of  Memory, 
One  broken  plank  of  the  Past, 

1  A  threefold  sorrow  lias  here  found  for  itself  a  single 
expression.  Part  of  the  poem  was  written  in  1850,  after 
the  death  of  Lowell's  third  daughter,  Rose,  only  six 
months  and  a  half  old.  '  I  shall  never  forget,'  he  said 
at  this  time,  '  the  feeling  I  had  when  little  Blanche's 
coffin  was  brought  into  the  house.  It  was  refreshed 
again  lately.  But  for  Rose  I  would  have  no  funeral.  .  .  . 
She  was  a  lovely  child  —  we  think  the  loveliest  of  our 
three.  She  was  more  like  Blanche  than  Mabel.  .  .  . 
Her  illness  lasted  a  week,  but  I  never  had  any  hope, 
so  that  she  died  to  me  the  first  day  the  doctor  came. 
She  was  very  beautiful  —  fair,  with  large  dark-gray 
eyes  and  fine  features.  .  .  .  Dear  little  child !  she  had 
never  spoken,  only  smiled.'  There  follow,  in  Lowell's 
letter,  six  stanzas  of  this  poem,  in  an  earlier  form. 
Into  it  is  interwoven  the  memory  of  his  oldest  child, 
Blanche,  especially  perhaps  in  the  last  stanza.  '  After 
Blanche  was  buried  '  says  Scudder  in  his  Life  of 
Lowell,  'her  father  took  lier  tiny  shoes,  the  only  ones 
she  had  ever  worn,  and  hung  them  in  his  chamber. 
There  they  stayed  till  his  own  death.'  But  it  was  the 
death  of  Lowell's  wife  that  gave  to  the  poem  its  real 
intensity.  The  second  to  fourth  stanzas,  and  the  seventh 
to  twelfth,  were  written  in  a  mood  which  made  Lowell 
say  later  :  '  Something  broke  my  life  in  two,  and  I  can- 
not piece  it  together  again.  ...  I  hope  you  may  never 
have  reason  to  like  "After  the  Burial"  better  than 
you  do.' 

The  same  interweaving  is  found  in  '  Under  the  Wil- 
lows,' of  which  Lowell  says :  '  Something  more  than 
half  of  it  was  written  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  on 
the  death  of  our  eldest  daughter;  but  when  I  came  to 
complete  it,  that  other  death,  which  broke  my  life  in 
two,  would  come  in  ngaiust  my  will.' 

Lowell  said  of  this  poem  later,  '  A  living  verse  can 
only  be  made  of  a  living  experience  —  and  vhat  our  own. 
One  of  my  most  personal  poems,  "  After  the  Burial," 
has  roused  strange  echoes  in  men  who  assured  me  they 
were  generally  insensible  to  poetry.  After  all,  the  only 
atuff  a  solitary  man  lias  to  spin  is  himself.'  (The  ex- 
tracts from  Lou-ell's  Letters  are  quoted  by  permission 
of  Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers.) 


That  our  human  heart  may  cling  to, 

Though  hopeless  of  shore  at  last!  20 

To  the  spirit  its  splendid  conjectures, 

To  the  flesh  its  sweet  despair, 
Its  tears  o'er  the  thin- worn  locket 

With  its  anguish  of  deathless  hair  ! 

Immortal  ?   I  feel  it  and  know  it, 
Who  doubts  it  of  such  as  she  ? 

But  that  is  the  pang's  very  secret,  — 
Immortal  away  from  me. 

There  's  a  narrow  ridge  in  the  graveyard 
Would  scarce  stay  a  child  in  his  race,   39 

But  to  me  and  my  thought  it  is  wider 
Than  the  star-sown  vague  of  Space. 

Your  logic,  my  friend,  is  perfect, 
Your  moral  most  drearily  true; 

But,  since  the  earth  clashed  on  her  coffin, 
I  keep  hearing  that,  and  not  you. 

Console  if  you  will,  I  can  bear  it; 

'T  is  a  well-meant  alms  of  breath; 
But  not  all  the  preaching  since  Adam 

Has  made  Death  other  than  Death.       40 

It  is  pagan  ;  but  wait  till  you  feel  it,  — 
That  jar  of  our  earth,  that  dull  shock 

When  the  ploughshare  of  deeper  passion 
Tears  down  to  our  primitive  rock. 

Communion  in  spirit  !    Forgive  me, 
But  I,  who  am  earthly  and  weak, 

Would  give  all  my  incomes  from  dream- 
land 
For  a  touch  of  her  hand  on  my  cheek. 

That  little  shoe  in  the  corner, 

So  worn  and  wrinkled  and  brown,  50 

With  its  emptiness  confutes  you, 

And  Argues  your  wisdom  down. 
1850,  1854,  1868.  1868, 


L'ENVOI 

TO   THE   MUSE1 

WHITHER  ?     Albeit  I  follow  fast, 
In  all  life's  circuit  I  but  find, 

1  Passed  an  hour  with  Lowell  this  morning.  He  read 
me  a  poem,  '  The  Muse,'  —  very  beautiful.  It  reminded 
me  of  Emerson's 'Forerunners.'  (Longfellow's  Jour- 
nal, TA&y  3,  1855.) 


464 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Not  where  thou  art,  but  where  thou  wast, 

Sweet  beckoner,  more  fleet  than  wind  ! 
I  haunt  the  pine-dark  solitudes, 

With  soft  brown  silence  carpeted, 
And  plot  to  snare  thee  in  the  woods: 

Peace  I  o'ertake,  but  thou  art  fled  ! 
I  find  the  rock  where  thou  didst  rest, 
The  moss  thy  skimming  foot  hath  prest;  10 

All  Nature  with  thy  parting  thrills, 
Like  branches  after  birds  new-flown; 

Thy  passage  hill  and  hollow  fills 
With  hints  of  virtue  not  their  own; 
In  dimples  still  the  water  slips 
Where  thou  has  dipt  thy  finger-tips; 

Just,  just  beyond,  forever  burn 

Gleams  of  a  grace  without  return; 

Upon  thy  shade  I  plant  my  foot, 
And  through  my  frame  strange  raptures 
shoot;  20 

All  of  thee  but  thyself  I  grasp; 

I  seem  to  fold  thy  luring  shape, 
And  vague  air  to  my  bosom  clasp, 

Thou  lithe,  perpetual  Escape  ! 

One  mask  and  then  another  drops, 
And  thou  art  secret  as  before: 

Sometimes  with  flooded  ear  I  list, 

And  hear  thee,  wondrous  organist, 
From  mighty  continental  stops 
A  thunder  of  new  music  pour;  30 

Through  pipes  of  earth  and  air  and  stone 
Thy  inspiration  deep  is  blown; 
Through  mountains,  forests,  open  downs, 
Lakes,  railroads,  prairies,  states,  and  towns, 
Thy  gathering  fugue  goes  rolling  on 
From  Maine  to  utmost  Oregon; 
The  factory- wheels  in  cadence  hum, 
From  brawling  parties  concords  come; 
All  this  I  hear,  or  seem  to  hear, 
But  when,  enchanted,  I  draw  near  40 

To  mate  with  words  the  various  theme, 
Life  seems  a  whiff  of  kitchen  steam, 
History  an  organ-grinder's  thrum,  , 

For  thou  hast  slipt  from  it  and  me 
And  all  thine  organ-pipes  left  dumb, 

Most  mutable  Perversity ! 

Not  weary  yet,  I  still  must  seek, 

And  hope  for  luck  next  day,  next  week; 

I  go  to  see  the  great  man  ride, 

Shiplike,  the  swelling  human  tide  50 

That  floods  to  bear  him  into  port, 

Trophied  from  Senate-hall  and  Court; 

Thy  magnetism,  I  feel  it  there, 

Thy  rhythmic  presence  fleet  and  rare, 


Making  the  Mob  a  moment  fine 
With  glimpses  of  their  own  Divine, 
As  in  their  demigod  they  see 

Their  cramped  ideal  soaring  free; 
'T  was  thou  didst  bear  the  fire  about, 

That,  like  the  springing  of  a  mine,        60 
Sent  up  to  heaven  the  street-long  shout; 
Full  well  I  know  that  thou  wast  here, 
It  was  thy  breath  that  brushed  my  ear; 
But  vainly  in  the  stress  and  whirl 
I  dive  for  thee,  the  moment's  pearl. 

Through  every  shape  thou  well  canst  run, 

Proteus,  'twixt  rise  and  set  of  sun, 

Well  pleased  with  logger-camps  in  Maine 

As  where  Milan's  pale  Duomo  lies 
A  stranded  glacier  on  the  plain,  7o 

Its  peaks  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
Melted  in  many  a  quaint  device, 
And  sees,  above  the  city's  din, 
Afar  its  silent  Alpine  kin: 
I  track  thee  over  carpets  deep 
To  wealth's  and  beauty's  inmost  keep; 
Across  the  sand  of  bar-room  floors 
"Mid  the  stale  reek  of  boosing  boors; 
Where    browse    the    hay-field's    fragrant 

heats, 

Or  the  flail-heart  of  Autumn  beats;  80 

I  dog  thee  through  the  market's  throngs 
To  where  the  sea  with  myriad  tongues 
Laps  the  green  edges  of  the  pier, 
And  the  tall  ships  that  eastward  steer, 
Curtsy  their  farewells  to  the  town, 
O'er  the  curved  distance  lessening  down, 
I  follow  allwhere  for  thy  sake, 
Touch  thy  robe's  hem,  but  ne'er  o'ertake, 
Find  where,  scarce  yet  unmoving,  lies, 
W arm  from  thy  limbs,  thy  last  disguise ;  90 
But  thou  another  shape  hast  donned, 
And  lurest  still  just,  just  beyond  ! 

But  here  a  voice,  I  know  not  whence, 
Thrills  clearly  through  my  inward  sense, 
Saying:  '  See  where  she  sits  at  home 
While  thou  in  search  of  her  dost  roam  ! 
All  summer  long  her  ancient  wheel 

Whirls  humming  by  the  open  door, 
Or,  when  the  hickory's  social  zeal 

Sets  the  wide  chimney  in  a  roar,  100 

Close-nestled  by  the  tinkling  hearth, 
It  modulates  the  household  mirth 
With  that  sweet  serious  undertone 
Of  duty,  music  all  her  own; 
Still  as  of  old  she  sits  and  spins 
Our  hopes,  our  sorrows,  and  our  sins; 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


465 


With  equal  care  she  twines  the  fates 

Of  cottages  and  mighty  states; 

She  spins  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sea, 

The  maiden's  unschooled  fancy  free,        no 

The  boy's  first  love,  the  man's  first  grief, 

The  budding  and  the  fall  o'  the  leaf; 

The  piping  west-wind's  snowy  care 

For  her  their  cloudy  fleeces  spare, 

Or  from  the  thorns  of  evil  times 

She  can  glean  wool  to  twist  her  rhymes; 

Morning  and  noon  and  eve  supply 

To  her  their  fairest  tints  for  dye, 

But  ever  through  her  twirling  thread 

There  spires  one  line  of  warmest  red,      120 

Tinged  from  the  homestead's  genial  heart, 

The  stamp  and  warrant  of  her  art; 

With  this  Time's  sickle  she  outwears, 

And  blunts  the  Sisters'  baffled  shears. 

'Harass  her  not:  thy  heat  and  stir 
But  greater  coyness  breed  in  her; 
Yet  thou  mayst  find,  ere  Age's  frost, 
Thy  long  apprenticeship  not  lost, 
Learning  at  last  that  Stygian  Fate 
Unbends  to  him  that  knows  to  wait.         130 
The  Muse  is  womanish,  nor  deigns 
Her  love  to  him  that  pules  and  plains; 
With  proud,  averted  face  she  stands 
To  him  that  wooes  with  empty  hands. 
Make  thyself  free  of  Manhood's  guild; 
Pull  down  thy  barns  and  greater  build; 
The  wood,  the  mountain,  and  the  plain 
Wave  breast-deep  with  the  poet's  grain; 
Pluck  thou  the  sunset's  fruit  of  gold, 
Glean  from  the  heavens  and  ocean  old;   140 
From  fireside  lone  and  trampling  street 
Let  thy  life  garner  daily  wheat; 
The  epic  of  a  man  rehearse, 
Be  something  better  than  thy  verse; 
Make  thyself  rich,  and  then  the  Muse 
Shall  court  thy  precious  interviews, 
Shall  take  thy  head  upon  her  knee, 
And  such  enchantment  lilt  to  thee, 
That  thou  shalt  hear  the  life-blood  flow 
From  farthest  stars  to  grass-blades  low,  150 
And  find  the  Listener's  science  still 
Transcends  the  Singer's  deepest  skill ! ' 
1855  ?  I860. 


MASACC1O 

IX   THE   BRANCACCI   CHAPEL 

HE  came  to  Florence  long  ago, 

And  painted  here  these  walls,  that  shone 


For  Raphael  and  for  Angelo, 
With  secrets  deeper  than  his  own, 
Then  shrank  into  the  dark  again, 
And  died,  we  know  not  how  or  when. 

The  shadows  deepened,  and  I  turned 
Half  sadly  from  the  fresco  grand; 
'  And  is  this,'  mused  I,  '  all  ye  earned, 
High- vaulted  brain  and  cunning  hand,      10 
That  ye  to  greater  men  could  teach 
The  skill  yourselves  could  never  reach  ?  ' 

'  And    who    were    they,'    I    mused,  '  that 

wrought 

Through  pathless  wilds,  with  labor  long, 
The  highways  of  our  daily  thought  ? 
Who  reared  those  towers  of  earliest  song 
That  lift  us  from  the  crowd  to  peace 
Remote  in  sunny  silences  ? ' 

Out  clanged  the  Ave  Mary  bells, 

And  to  my  heart  this  message  came:         20 

Each  clamorous  throat  among  them  tells 

What  stroug-souled  martyrs  died  in  flame 

To  make  it  possible  that  thou 

Shouldst  here  with  brother  sinners  bow. 

Thoughts  that  great  hearts  once  broke  for, 

we 

Breathe  cheaply  in  the  common  air; 
The  dust  we  trample  heedlessly 
Throbbed  once  in  saints  and  heroes  rare, 
Who  perished,  opening  for  their  race 
New  pathways  to  the  commonplace.          30 

Henceforth,  when  rings  the  health  to  those 

Who  live  in  story  and  in  song, 

O  nameless  dead,  that  now  repose 

Safe  in  Oblivion's  chambers  strong, 

One  cup  of  recognition  true 

Shall  silently  be  drained  to  you  ! 

1866  ?  (1868.) 


THE    ORIGIN    OF    DIDACTIC 
POETRY 

WHEN  wise  Minerva  still  was  young 

And  just  the  least  romantic, 
Soon  after  from  Jove's  head  she  flung 

That  preternatural  antic, 
T  is  said,  to  keep  from  idleness 

Or  flirting,  those  twin  curses, 
She  spent  her  leisure,  more  or  less, 

In  writing  po ,  no,  verses. 


46b 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


How  nice  they  were  !  to  rhyme  with  far 

A  kind  star  did  not  tarry ;  10 

The  metre,  too,  was  regular 

As  schoolboy's  dot  and  carry ; 
And  full  they  were  of  pious  plums, 

So  extra-super-moral,  — 
For  sucking  Virtue's  tender  gums 

Most  tooth-enticing  coral. 

A  clean,  fair  copy  she  prepares, 

Makes  sure  of  moods  and  tenses, 
With  her  own  hand,  —  for  prudence  spares 

A  man-(or  womau-)-uensis ;  20 

Complete,,  and  tied  with  ribbons  proud, 

She  hinted  soon  how  cosy  a 
Treat  it  would  be  to  read  them  loud 

After  next  day's  Ambrosia. 

The  Gods  thought  not  it  would  amuse 

So  much  as  Homer's  Odyssees, 
But  could  not  very  well  refuse 

The  properest  of  Goddesses; 
So  all  sat  round  in  attitudes 

Of  various  dejection,  30 

As  with  a  hem  !  the  queen  of  prudes 

Began  her  grave  prelection. 

At  the  first  pause  Zeus  said,  'Well  sung !  — 

I  mean  —  ask  Phoebus,  —  he  knows.' 
Says  Phcebus,  '  Zounds  !  a  wolf  's  among 

Admetus's  merinos  ! 
Fine  !  very  fine  !  but  I  must  go; 

They  stand  in  need  of  me  there ; 
Excuse  me  ! '  snatched  his  stick,  and  so 

Plunged  down  the  gladdened  ether.       4o 

With  the  next  gap,  Mars  said,  '  For  me 

Don't  wait,  —  naught  could  be  finer, 
But  I  'm  engaged  at  half  past  three,  — 

A  fight  in  Asia  Minor  ! ' 
Then  Venus  lisped,  «  I  'm  sorely  tried, 

These  duty-calls  are  vip'rous; 
But  I  must  go ;  I  have  a  bride 

To  see  about  in  Cyprus.' 

Then  Bacchus,  — '  I  must  say  good-by, 

Although  my  peace  it  jeopards ;  50 

I  meet  a  man  at  four,  to  try 

A  well-broke  pair  of  leopards.' 
His  words  woke  Hermes.    '  Ah  ! '  he  said, 

'  I  so  love  moral  theses  ! ' 
Then  winked  at  Hebe,  who  turned  red, 

And  smoothed  her  apron's  creases. 

Just  then  Zeus  snored,  —  the  Eagle  drew 
His  head  the  wing  from  under; 


Zeus  snored,  —  o'er  startled  Greece  there 
flew 

The  many-volumed  thunder.  60 

Some  augurs  counted  nine,  some,  ten; 

Some  said  't  was  war,  some,  famine, 
And  all,  that  other-minded  men 

Would  get  a  precious . 

Proud  Pallas  sighed,  '  It  will  not  do; 

Against  the  Muse  I  've  sinned,  oh  ! ' 
And  her  torn  rhymes  sent  flying  through 

Olympus's  back  window. 
Then,  packing  up  a  peplus  clean, 

She  took  the  shortest  path  thence,  7o 
And  opened,  with  a  mind  serene, 

A  Sunday-school  in  Athens. 

The  verses  ?   Some  in  ocean  swilled, 

Killed  every  fish  that  bit  to  'em ; 
Some  Galen  caught,  and,  when  distilled, 

Found  morphine  the  residuum ; 
But  some  that  rotted  on  the  earth 

Sprang  up  again  in  copies, 
And  gave  two  strong  narcotics  birth, 

Didactic  verse  and  poppies.  80 

Years  after,  when  a  poet  asked 

The  Goddess's  opinion, 
As  one  whose  soul  its  wings  had  tasked 

In  Art's  clear-aired  dominion, 
'  Discriminate,'  she  said,  'betimes; 

The  Muse  is  unforgiving; 
Put  all  your  beauty  in  your  rhymes, 

Your  morals  in  your  living.' 

1857.1 

THE    DEAD  HOUSE2 

HERE  once  my  step  was  quickened, 
Here  beckoned  the  opening  door, 

And  welcome  thrilled  from  the  threshold 
To  the  foot  it  had  known  before. 

1  In  the  first  number  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  of 
which  Lowell  was  editor. 

*  I  have  a  notion  that  the  inmates  of  a  house  should 
never  be  changed.  When  the  first  occupants  go  out  it 
should  be  burned,  and  a  stone  set  up  with  '  Sacred  to  the 
memory  of  a  HOME '  on  it.  Suppose  the  body  were 
eternal,  and  that  when  one  spirit  went  out  another  took 
the  lease.  How  frightful  the  strange  expression  of  the 
eyes  would  be  !  I  fancy  sometimes  that  the  look  in  the 
eyes  of  a  familiar  house  changes  when  aliens  have 
come  into  it.  For  certainly  a  dwelling  adapts  itself  to 
its  occupants.  The  front  door  of  a  hospitable  man  opens 
easily  and  looks  broad,  and  you  can  read  Welcome  !  on 
every  step  that  leads  to  it.  (Lowell's  Letters,  vol.  i,  pp. 
283,  284.  Quoted  by  permission  of  Messrs.  Harper  and 
Brothers.)  i 

For  the  first  form  of  the  poem,  see  Scudder's  Life  of 
Lowell,  vol.  i,  pp.  435-437. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


467 


A  glow  came  forth  to  meet  me 

From  the  flame  that  laughed  in  the  grate, 
And  shadows  adance  on  the  ceiling, 

Danced  blither  with  mine  for  a  mate. 

1 1  claim  you,  old  friend,'  yawned  the  arm- 
chair, 

'  This  corner,  you  know,  is  your  seat; '  10 
'  Rest  your  slippers  on  me,'  beamed   the 

fender, 
'  I  brighten  at  touch  of  your  feet.' 

'  We  know  the  practised  finger,' 

Said  the  books,  'that  seems  like  brain;' 

And  the  shy  page  rustled  the  secret 
It  had  kept  till  I  came  again. 

Sang  the  pillow,  '  My  down  once  quivered 
On  nightingales'  throats  that  flew 

Through  moonlit  gardens  of  Hafiz 

To  gather  quaint  dreams  for  you.'         20 

Ah  me,  where  the  Past  sowed  heart's-ease, 
The  Present  plucks  rue  for  us  men  ! 

I  come  back:  that  scar  unhealing 
Was  not  in  the  churchyard  then. 

But,  I  think,  the  house  is  unaltered, 

I  will  go  and  beg  to  look 
At  the  rooms  that  were  once  familiar 

To  my  life  as  its  bed  to  a  brook. 

Unaltered  !  Alas  for  the  sameness 

That  makes  the  change  but  more  !         30 

'T  is  a  dead  man  I  see  in  the  mirrors, 
'T  is  his  tread  that  chills  the  floor  ! 

To  learn  such  a  simple  lesson, 
Need  I  go  to  Paris  and  Rome, 

That  the  many  make  the  household, 
But  only  one  the  home  ? 

'T  was  just  a  womanly  presence, 

An  influence  unexprest, 
But  a  rose  she  had  worn,  on  my  grave-sod 

Were  more  than  long  life  with  the  rest  ! 

'T  was  a  smile,  't  was  a  garment's  rustle,  41 
'T  was  nothing  that  I  can  phrase, 

But  the  whole  dumb  dwelling  grew  con- 
scious, 
And  put  on  her  looks  and  ways. 

Were  it  mine  I  would  close  the  shutters, 
Like  lids  when  the  life  is  fled, 


And  the  funeral  fire  should  wind  it, 
This  corpse  of  a  home  that  is  dead. 

For  it  died  that  autumn  morning 
When  she,  its  soul,  was  borne 

To  lie  all  dark  on  the  hillside 

That  looks  over  woodland  and  corn. 


1858. 


AT    THE    BURNS     CENTENNIAL 

JANUARY,    1859 

I 
A  HUNDRED  years  !  they  're  quickly  fled, 

With  all  their  joy  and  sorrow; 
Their  dead  leaves  shed  upon  the  dead, 

Their  fresh  ones  sprung  by  morrow  ! 
And  still  the  patient  seasons  bring 

Their  change  of  sun  and  shadow; 
New  birds  still  sing  with  every  spring, 

New  violets  spot  the  meadow. 


A  hundred  years  !  and  Nature's  powers 

No  greater  grown  nor  lessened  !  10 

They    saw    no  flowers    more  sweet  than 
ours, 

No  fairer  new  moon's  crescent. 
Would  she  but  treat  us  poets  so, 

So  from  our  winter  free  us, 
And  set  our  slow  old  sap  aflow 

To  sprout  in  fresh  ideas  ! 


Alas,  think  I,  what  worth  or  parts 

Have  brought  me  here  competing, 
To  speak  what  starts  in  myriad  hearts 

With  Burns's  memory  beating  ! 
Himself  had  loved  a  theme  like  this; 

Must  I  be  its  entomber  ? 
No  pen  save  his  but 's  sure  to  miss 

Its  pathos  or  its  humor. 


As  I  sat  musing  what  to  say, 

And  how  my  verse  to  number, 
Some  elf  in  play  passed  by  that  way, 

And  sank  my  lids  in  slumber; 
And  on  my  sleep  a  vision  stole, 

Which  I  will  put  in  metre, 
Of  Burns's  soul  at  the  wicket-hole 

Where  sits  the  good  Saint  Peter. 


468 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


The  saint,  methought,  had  left  his  post 

That  day  to  Holy  Willie, 
Who  swore,  '  Each  ghost  that  comes  shall 
toast 

In  brunstane,  will  he,  nill  he; 
There 's    nane    need    hope    with    phrases 
fine 

Their  score  to  wipe  a  sin  f  rae ; 
I  '11  chalk  a  sign,  to  save  their  tryin',  — 

A  hand  (JA\)  and  "  Vide  infra  !  "  '         40 


Alas  !  no  soil 's  too  cold  or  dry 

For  spiritual  small  potatoes, 
Scrimped  natures,  spry  the  trade  to  ply 

Of  diaboli  advocatus; 
Who  lay  bent  pins  in  the  penance-stool 

Where  Mercy  plumps  a  cushion, 
Who  've  just  one  rule  for  knave  and  fool, 

It  saves  so  much  confusion  ! 


So  when   Burns    knocked,  Will   knit    his 
brows, 

His  window  gap  made  scanter,  50 

And  said,  '  Go  rouse  the  other  house ; 

We  lodge  no  Tarn  O'Shanter  ! ' 
*  We  lodge  ! '  laughed  Burns.    '  Now  well 
I  see 

Death  cannot  kill  old  nature ; 
No  human  flea  but  thinks  that  he 

May  speak  for  his  Creator  ! 


'  But,  Willie,  friend,  don't  turn  me  forth, 

Auld  Clootie  needs  no  gauger; 
And  if  on  earth  I  had  small  worth, 

You  Ve  let  in  worse,  I  'se  wager  ! '       (x 
*  Na,  nane  has  knockit  at  the  yett 

But  found  me  hard  as  whunstane; 
There  's  chances  yet  your  bread  to  get 

Wi  Auld  Nick,  gaugin'  brunstane.' 


Meanwhile,  the  Unco'  Guid  had  ta'en 

Their  place  to  watch  the  process, 
Flattening  in  vain  on  many  a  pane 

Their  disembodied  noses. 
Remember,  please,  't  is  all  a  dream ; 

One  can't  control  the  fancies  70 

Through  sleep  that  stream  with  wayward 
gleam, 

Like  midnight's  boreal  dances. 


Old  Willie's  tone  grew  sharp  's  a  knife: 

'  In  primis,  I  indite  ye, 
For  makin'  strife  wi'  the  water  o'  life, 

And  preferrin'  aqua  vitce  !  ' 
Then  roared  a  voice  with  lusty  din, 

Like  a  skipper's  when  't  is  blowy, 
'  If  that  's  a  sin,  /  'd  ne'er  got  in, 

As  sure  as  my  name  's  Noah  ! ' 


Baulked,  Willie  turned  another  leaf,  — 

'  There  's  many  here  have  heard  ye, 
To  the  pain  and  grief  o'  true  belief, 

Say  hard  things  o'  the  clergy  !  ' 
Then  rang  a  clear  tone  over  all,  — 

'  One  plea  for  him  allow  me : 
I  once  heard  call  from  o'er  me,  "  Saul, 

Why  persecutest  thou  me  ?  "  ' 

XII 
To  the  next  charge  vexed  Willie  turned, 

And,  sighing,  wiped  his  glasses:  9o 

'  I  'm  much  concerned  to  find  ye  yearned 

O'er-warmly  tow'rd  the  lasses  ! ' 
Here  David  sighed;  poor  Willie's  face 

Lost  all  its  self-possession: 
'  I  leave  this  case  to  God's  own  grace; 

It  baffles  my  discretion  ! ' 


Then  sudden  glory  round  me  broke, 

And  low  melodious  surges 
Of  wings  whose  stroke  to  splendor  woke 

Creation's  farthest  verges;  i 

A  cross  stretched,  ladder-like,  secure 

From  earth  to  heaven's  own  portal, 
Whereby  God's  poor,  with  footing  sure, 

Climbed  up  to  peace  immortal. 


I  heard  a  voice  serene  and  low 

(With  my  heart  I  seemed  to  hear  it) 
Fall  soft  and  slow  as  snow  on  snow, 

Like  grace  of  the  heavenly  spirit; 
As  sweet  as  over  new-born  son 

The  croon  of  new-made  mother, 
The  voice  begun,  '  Sore  tempted  one  ! ' 

Then,  pausing,  sighed,  '  Our  brother  ! 

xv 
'  If  not  a  sparrow  fall,  unless 

The  Father  sees  and  knows  it, 
Think  !  recks  He  less  his  form  express, 

The  soul  his  own  deposit  ? 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


469 


If  only  dear  to  Him  the  strong, 

That  never  trip  nor  wander, 
Where   were   the    throng  whose   morning 
song 

Thrills  his  blue  arches  yonder  ?  120 


'  Do  souls  alone  clear-eyed,  strong-kneed, 

To  Him  true  service  render, 
And  they  who  need  his  hand  to  lead, 

Find  they  his  heart  untender  ? 
Through  all  your  various  ranks  and  fates 

He  opens  doors  to  duty, 
And  he  that  waits  there  at  your  gates 

Was  servant  of  his  Beauty. 


'  The  Earth  must  richer  sap  secrete 

(Could  ye  in  time  but  know  it !), 
Must  juice  concrete  with  fiercer  heat, 

Ere  she  can  make  her  poet; 
Long  generations  go  and  come, 

At  last  she  bears  a  singer, 
For  ages  dumb  of  senses  numb 

The  compensation-briuger  ! 


'  Her  cheaper  broods  in  palaces 

She  raises  under  glasses, 
But  souls  like  these,  heav'n's  hostages, 

Spring  shelterless  as  grasses :  140 

They  share  Earth's  blessing  and  her  bane, 

The  common  sun  and  shower; 
What  makes  your  pain  to  them  is  gain, 

Your  weakness  is  their  power. 


'  These  larger  hearts  must  feel  the  rolls 

Of  stormier- waved  temptation; 
These  star-wide  souls  between  their  poles 

Bear  zones  of  tropic  passion. 
He  loved  much  !  —  that  is  gospel  good, 

Howe'er  the  text  you  handle ;  1 50 

From  common  wood  the  cross  was  hewed, 

By  love  turned  priceless  sandal. 


'  If  scant  his  service  at  the  kirk, 

He  paters  heard  and  aves 
From  choirs  that  lurk  in  hedge  and  birk, 

From  blackbird  and  from  mavis; 
The  cowering  mouse,  poor  unroofed  thing, 

In  him  found  Mercy's  angel; 
The  daisy's  ring  brought  every  spring 

To  him  Love's  fresh  evangel  !  160 


'  Not  he  the  threatening  texts  who  deals 

Is  highest  'mong  the  preachers, 
But  he  who  feels  the  woes  and  weals 

Of  all  God's  wandering  creatures. 
He  doth  good  work  whose  heart  can  find 

The  spirit  'neath  the  letter; 
Who  makes  his  kind  of  happier  mind, 

Leaves  wiser  men  and  better. 

XXII 

'  They  make  Religion  be  abhorred 

Who  round  with  darkness  gulf  her,     17* 
And  think  no  word  can  please  the  Lord 

Unless  it  smell  of  sulphur. 
Dear  Poet-heart,  that  childlike  guessed 

The  Father's  loving  kindness, 
Come  now  to  rest !     Thou  didst  his  best, 

If  haply  't  was  in  blindness  ! ' 


Then  leapt  heaven's  portals  wide  apart, 

And  at  their  golden  thunder 
With  sudden  start  I  woke,  my  heart 

Still  throbbing-full  of  wonder. 
'  Father,'  I  said,  '  't  is  known  to  Thee 

How  Thou  thy  Saints  prepare  st; 
But  this  I  see,  —  Saint  Charity 

Is  still  the  first  and  fairest ! ' 


Dear  Bard  and  Brother  !  let  who  may 

Against  thy  faults  be  railing 
(Though  far,  I  pray,  from  us  be  they 

That  never  had  a  failing  !), 
One  toast  I  '11  give,  and  that  not  long, 

Which  thou  would  st  pledge  if  present, — 
To  him  whose  song,  in  nature  strong,       151 

Makes  man  of  prince  and  peasant ! 

1859? 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE 
SHROUD1 

OCTOBER,    l86l 

ALONG  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where, 
I  walked  one  night  in  mystery  of  dream; 

1  Lowell  wrote  to  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton, 
October  12,  1861  :  '  I  had  just  two  days  allowed  me  by 
Fields  for  the  November  Atlantic,  and  I  got  it  done.  It 
had  been  in  my  head  some  time,  and  when  you  see  it 
you  will  remember  my  having  spoken  to  you  about  it. 
Indeed,  I  owe  it  to  you,  for  the  hint  came  from  one  of 
those  books  of  Souvestre's  you  lent  me  —  the  Breton 
legends.  The  writing  took  hold  of  me  enough  to  leave 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


A  chill   creeps   curdling  yet  beneath  my 

hair, 
To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid 

gleam 
Of    a    moon-wraith   that   waned    through 

haunted  air. 

Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow- 
mist 

Their  halos,  wavering  thistle  downs  of 
light; 

The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some  goblin 
tryst, 

Laughed;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  af- 
fright, 

Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the 
night.  10 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there   smote  my 

ear 
A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked 

my  breath: 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer  ? 
But    something    said,   '  This   water   is   of 

Death ! 
The  Sisters  wash  a  shroud,  —  ill  thing  to 

hear ! ' 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient  Three 
Known  to  the  Greek's  and  to  the  North- 
man's creed, 

That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 
Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless 

brede, 

One  song:  '  Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time 
shall  be.' 

No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as   I  had 

deemed, 

But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow, 
To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed; 
Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep  for 

sorrow, 
Thrilled   in   their   tones,   and    from   their 

faces  gleamed. 

me  tired  out  and  to  satisfy  me  entirely  as  to  what  was 
the  original  of  my  head  and  back  pains.  But  whether 
it  is  good  or  not,  I  am  not  yet  far  enough  off  to  say. 
But  do  like  it,  if  you  can.  Fields  says  it  is  "  splendid," 
with  tears  in  his  eyes  —  but  then  I  read  it  to  him,  which 
is  half  the  battle.  I  began  it  as  a  lyric,  but  it  would 
be  too  aphoristic  for  that,  and  finally  flatly  refused  to 
sing  at  any  price.  So  I  submitted,  took  to  pentameters, 
and  only  hope  the  thoughts  are  good  enough  to  be  pre- 
served in  the  ice  of  the  colder  and  almost  glacier-slow 
measure.  I  think  I  have  done  well  —  in  some  stanzas 
at  least  —  and  not  wasted  words.  It  is  about  present 
matters.'  (Lowell's  Letter*,  vol.  i,  p.  318.  Quoted  by 
permission  of  Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers.) 


'  Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they  have 

strawn,' 
So   sang   they,  working  at  their  task  the 

while; 
'The   fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere 

dawn: 
For   Austria?    Italy?    the    Sea -Queen's 

isle? 
O'er  what   quenched   grandeur   must   our 


Z 


shroud  be  drawn  ? 

'  Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse, 

That  gathered  States  like  children  round 

his  knees, 
That   tamed   the   wave  to  be  his   posting 

horse, 

Feller  of  forests,  linker  of  the  seas, 
Bridge-builder,  hammerer,  youngest  son  of 

Thor's? 

'What   make   we,   murmur'st   thou?  and 

what  are  we? 
When  empires  must  be  wound,  we  bring 

the  shroud, 

The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three: 
Is   it   too  coarse   for  him,  the  young  and 

proud? 
Earth's   mightiest   deigned   to  wear  it,  — 

why  not  he?  '  40 

'  Is  there  no  hope?  '  I  moaned,  '  so  strong, 

so  fair! 
Our  Fowler  whose  proud  bird  would  brook 

erewhile 

No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air! 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For  him,  life's  morn  yet  golden  in  his  hair? 

'  Leave    me    not    hopeless,   ye    unpitying 

dames  ! 

I  see,  half  seeing.   Tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 
The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  stiU  must  noblest 

aims 

Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands  ? 
Must  Hesper   join   the   wailing  ghosts  of 

names  ?  '  50 

«  When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battle- 


dew, 

Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and  the  slain : 
Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and 

true 
To  the  heart's    longing,  the  high  faith  of 

brain? 
Yet  there  the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but  knew. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


'Three  roots  bear  up  Dominion:  Know- 
ledge, Will,  — 

These  twain  are  strong,  but  stronger  yet 
the  third,  — 

Obedience,  —  't  is  the  great  tap-root  that 
still, 

Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred, 

Though  Heaven-loosed  tempests  spend  their 
utmost  skill.  60 

'  Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper?  'T  is  not 
we 

Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time: 

The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity; 

The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance  sub- 
lime, 

Dwarfs  it  to  peril:  which  shall  Hesper  be? 

'  Hath  he  let  vultures   climb   his  eagle's 

seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their 

maw? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more 

sweet 
Than  Wisdom?   held  Opinion's  wind    for 

Law? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  doomster's 

feet  !  70 

'  Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flintiest 

rock, 
States  climb  to  power  by  ;  slippery  those 

with  gold 

Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal  mock: 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre 

hold, 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell  the 

block. 

'We  sing  old  Sagas,  songs   of  weal   and 

woe, 

Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours;  men  hear  and 

know, 

See  Evil  weak,  see  strength  alone  in  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  with  walls  of 

tow.  80 

•Time   Was   unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time 

Is, 

That  offers  choice  of  glory  or  of  gloom; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall    Be  surely 

his. 


But  hasten,  Sisters  !  for  even  now  the  tomb 
Grates   its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the 
abyss.' 

'But  not  for  him,'  I  cried,  'not  yet  foi 

him, 
Whose   large   horizon,  westering,   star  by 

star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  Ocean's 

rim 
The   sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golde& 

bar, 

Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye  grow 

90 


dim! 


'His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved  for 
those 

That  walk  unblenching  through  the  trial- 
fires; 

Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart,  is  worst  of 
woes, 

And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires, 

Whose  eye  need  blench  confronted  with  his 
foes. 

'Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those 
who  win 

Death's  royal  purple  in  the  foeman's  lines; 

Peace,  too,  brings  tears ;  and  'mid  the  battle- 
din, 

The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 

For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with 
darker  sin.  too 

'  God,  give  us  peace  !  not  such  as  lulls  to 


But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose 

knit! 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 
Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 
And  her  leashed   thunders  gathering   for 

their  leap  ! ' 

So  cried  I  with  clenched  hands  and  passion- 
ate pain, 

Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side; 

Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and 
again 

The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and 
died, 

While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering 
brain.  i  ia 

1861.  186L 


47  2 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


THE   BIGLOW   PAPERS 


SECOND    SERIES 


THE    COURTIN'i 

GOD  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder. 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A.  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 

With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in  —  10 

There  war  n't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  f'om  Concord  busted.       20 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  f'om  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

1  The  only  attempt  I  had  ever  made  at  anything  like 
a  pastoral  (if  that  may  be  called  an  attempt  which  was 
the  result  almost  of  pure  accident)  was  in  '  The 
Courtin'.'  While  the  Introduction  to  the  First  Series 
was  going  through  the  press,  I  received  word  from  the 
printer  that  there  was  a  blank  page  left  which  must  be 
rilled.  I  sat  down  at  once  and  improvised  another 
fictitious  '  notice  of  the  press,'  in  which,  because  verse 
would  fill  up  space  more  cheaply  than  prose,  I  inserted 
an  extract  from  a  supposed  ballad  of  Mr.  Biglow.  I 
kept  no  copy  of  it,  and  the  printer,  as  directed,  cut  it 
off  when  the  gap  was  filled.  Presently  !•  began  to  re- 
ceive letters  asking  for  the  rest  of  it,  sometimes  for  the 
balance,  of  it.  I  had  none,  but  to  answer  such  demands, 
I  patched  a  conclusion  upon  it  in  a  later  edition.  Those 
who  had  only  the  first  continued  to  importune  me. 
Afterward,  being  asked  to  write  it  put  as  an  autograph 
for  the  Baltimore  Sanitary  Commission  Fair,  I  added 
other  verses,  into  some  of  which  I  infused  a  little  more 
sentiment  in  a  homely  way,  and  after  a  fashion  com- 
pleted it  by  sketching  in  the  characters  and  making  a 
connected  story.  Most  likely  I  have  spoiled  it,  but  I 
shall  put  it  at  the  end  of  this  Introduction,  to  answer 
once  for  all  those  kindly  importunings.  (LOWELL,  in 
?he  '  Introduction  '  to  the  Biglow  Papers,  1866.) 


'T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  1, 

Clear  grit  an'  human  natur',  30 

None  could  n't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He  'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
.     Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 
Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells  — 
All  is,  he  could  n't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 
The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 

Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il.  40 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisu  in  the  choir; 
My  !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  ri£ 
When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 

Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 
O'  blue  eyes  sot  upun  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  ! 

She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he  'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper,  — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

lake  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  1'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


473 


'  You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose  ? ' 

'  Wai  ...  no  ...  I  come  dasignin' '  — 

1  To  see  my  Ma  ?  She  's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'.' 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 

Or  don't,  'ould  be  persumin';  70 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 

Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'  other, 
An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 

He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  '  I  'd  better  call  agin ; ' 
Says  she,  'Think  likely,  Mister: ' 

Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 
An'  .  .  .  Wai,  he  up  an'  kist  her.  80 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 
Too  tight  for  all  expressing  90 

Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 
An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 
1848,  ?,  1866.  1848,  1866. 

NO.   II 

MASON   AND    SL1DELL:  A  YAN- 
KEE   IDYLL1 

I  LOVE  to  start  out  arter  night 's  begun, 
An'  all  the  chores  about  the  farm  are  done, 


1  In  the  latter  part  of  1861  President  Davis  under- 
took  to  send  agents  or  commissioners  to  England  and 
France  to  represent  the  Southern  cause.  The  men 
chosen  were  James  M.  Mason,  of  Virginia,  and  John 
Slidell,  of  Louisiana.  On  the  12th  of  October  they  left 
Charleston,  eluded  the  blockading  squadron,  and  landed 
at  Havana.  Thence  they  embarked  for  St.  Thomas  on 


The  critters   milked  an'   foddered,   gates 

shet  fast, 
Tools    cleaned    aginst    to-morrer,    supper 

past, 

An'  Nancy  darnin'  by  her  ker'sene  lamp,  — 
I  love,  I  say,  to  start  upon  a  tramp, 
To  shake  the  kinkles  out  o'  back  an'  legs, 
An'  kind  o'  rack  my  life  off  from  the  dregs 
Thet 's  apt  to  settle  in  the  buttery-hutch 
Of  folks  thet  f oiler  in  one  rut  too  much:  10 
Hard  work  is  good  an'  wholesome,  past  all 

doubt; 
But  't  ain't  so,  ef  the  mind  gits  tuckered 

out. 

Now,  bein'  born  in  Middlesex,  you  know, 
There  's  certin  spots  where  I  like  best  to 

go: 

The  Concord  road,  for  instance  (I,  for  one, 
Most  gin'lly  oilers  call  it  John  Bull's  Run), 
The  field  o'  Lexin'ton  where  England  tried 
The  fastest  colours  thet  she  ever  dyed, 
An'  Concord  Bridge,  thet  Davis,  when  he 

came, 
Found  was  the  bee-line  track  to  heaven  an* 

fame,  20 

Ez  all  roads  be  by  natur',  ef  your  soul 
Don't  sneak  thru  shun-pikes  so  's  to  save 

the  toll. 

They  're  'most  too  fur  away,  take  too  much 

time 

To  visit  of 'en,  ef  it  ain't  in  rhyme; 
But  the'  's  a  walk  thet 's  hendier,  a  sight, 
An'  suits  me  fust-rate  of  a  winter's  night,  — 

the  British  mail-steamer  Trent.  On  the  way  the  Trent 
was  stopped  by  Captain  Wilkes,  of  the  American  man- 
of-war  San  Ja'cinto,  and  the  Confederate  agents  were 
transferred  as  prisoners  to  the  latter  vessel.  The  Brit- 
ish Government  at  once  proclaimed  the  act  'a  great 
outrage,'  and  sent  a  peremptory  demand  for  the  re- 
lease of  the  prisoners  and  reparation.  At  the  same 
time,  without  waiting  for  any  explanation,  it  made  ex- 
tensive preparations  for  hostilities.  It  seemed  and  un- 
doubtedly was  expedient  for  the  United  States  to  receive 
Lord  Russell's  demand  as  an  admission  that  impress- 
ment of  British  seamen  found  on  board  neutral  vessels 
was  unwarrantable.  Acting  on  the  demand  as  an  admis- 
sion of  the  principle  so  long  contended  for  by  the  United 
States,  Mr.  Seward  disavowed  the  act  of  Wilkes  and 
released  the  commissioners.  But  it  was  held  then  and 
has  since  been  stoutly  maintained  by  many  jurists  that 
the  true  principles  of  international  law  will  not  justify 
a  neutral  vessel  in  transporting  the  agents  of  a  bel- 
ligerent on  a  hostile  mission.  On  the  analogy  of  de- 
spatches they  should  be  contraband.  The  difficulty  of 
amicable  settlement  at  that  time,  however,  lay  not  so 
much  in  the  point  of  law  as  in  the  intensity  of  popular 
feeling  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  (F.  B.  Williams, 
in  the  Rirerside  and  Cambridge  Editions  of  Lowell's 
Poetical  Works.)  See  also  the  long  introductory  letter 
of  the  Rev.  Homer  Wilbur,  in  the  Cambridge  Edition, 
pp.  228-233,  and  the  Riverside  Edition,  rol.  ii,  pp. 
240-253. 


474 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


I  mean  the  round  whale's-back  o'  Prospect 

Hill. 
I  love  to   1'iter   there  while   night  grows 

still, 

An'  in  the  twinklin'  villages  about, 
Fust  here,  then  there,  the  well-saved  lights 

goes  out,  3o 

An'    nary    sound    but    watch-dogs'    false 

alarms, 
Or  muffled  cock-crows  from  the   drowsy 

farms, 
Where   some  wise   rooster  (men  act  jest 

thet  way) 
Stands  to  't  thet  moon-rise  is  the  break  o' 

day 
fSo  Mister  Seward  sticks  a  three-months' 

pin 
Where  the  war  'd  oughto  eend,  then  tries 

agin; 
My  gran'ther's   rule  was  safer  'n  't  is    to 

crow: 

l)on't  never  prophesy  —  onless  ye  knoui). 
I  love  to  muse  there  till  it  kind  o'  seems 
Ez    ef    the    world   went    eddyin'    off    in 

dreams ;  4o 

The  northwest  wind  thet  twitches  at  my 

baird 

Blows  out  o'  sturdier  days  not  easy  scared, 
An'  the  same  moon  thet  this  December 

shines 
Starts  out  the  tents  an'  booths  o'  Putnam's 

lines; 
The  rail-fence  posts,  acrost  the   hill  thet 

runs, 
Turn  ghosts  o'  sogers  should'rin'  ghosts  o' 

guns; 

Ez  wheels  the  sentry,  glints  a  flash  o'  light, 
Along  the  firelock  won  at  Concord  Fight, 
An',  'twixt  the  silences,  now  fur,  now  nigh, 
Rings  the  sharp  chellenge,  hums  the  low 

reply.  SQ 

Ez  I  was  settin'  so,  it  warn't  long  sence, 
Mixin'  the  puffict  with  the  present  tense, 
I  heerd  two  voices  som'ers  in  the  air, 
Though,  ef  I  was  to  die,  I  can't  tell  where : 
Voices  I  call  'em:  'twas  a  kind  o'  sough 
Like  pine-trees  thet  the  wind's  ageth'rin 

through ; 

An',  fact,  I  thought  it  was  the  wind  a  spell, 
Then  some  misdoubted,  could  n't  fairly  tell, 
Fust  sure,  then  not,  jest  as  you  hold  an  eel, 
I  knowed,  an'  did  n't,  —  fin'lly  seemed  to 

feel  60 

'T  was  Concord  Bridge  a  talkin'  off  to  kill 


With   the  Stone    Spike   thet  's  druv   thru 

Bunker's  Hill; 

Whether  't  was  so,  or  ef  I  on'y  dreamed, 
I  couldn't  say;  I  tell  it  ez  it  seemed. 

THE    BRIDGE 

Wai,   neighbor,   tell   us  wut's   turned   up 

thet 's  new  ? 
You  're  younger  'n  I  be,  —  nigher  Boston, 

tu: 
An'  down   to  Boston,   ef  you  take  their 

showin', 
Wut  they  don't  know  ain't  hardly  wuth  the 

knowin'. 
There 's   sunthin*   goin'   on,    I   know :    las' 

night 

The  British  sogers  killed  in  our  gret  fight  7o 
(Nigh   fifty  year   they  hed  n't  stirred  nor 

spoke) 
Made  sech  a  coil  you  'd  thought  a  dam  hed 

broke: 

Why,  one  he  up  an'  beat  a  revellee 
With  his  own  crossbones  on  a  holler  tree, 
Till  all  the  graveyards  swarmed  out  like  a 

hive 

With   faces  I   hain't   seen  sence  Seventy- 
five. 
Wut  is  the  news  ?    'T  ain't  good,  or  they  'd 

be  cheerin'. 
Speak  slow  an'  clear,  for  I  'm  some  hard  o' 

hearin'. 

THE      MONIMENT 

I  don't  know  hardly  ef  it  's  good  or  bad,  — 

THE    BRIDGE 

At  wust,  it  can't  be  wus  than  wut  we  Ve 
had.  go 

THE   MONIMENT 

You  know  them  envys  thet  the  Rebbles 

sent, 
An'  Cap'n  Wilkes  he  borried  o'  the  Trent  ? 

THE    BRIDGE 

Wut !  they  ha'n't  hanged  'em  ?   Then  their 

wits  is  gone  ! 
Thet 's  the  sure  way   to   make  a  goose  a 

swan  ! 

THE     MONIMENT 

No:  England  she  would  hev  'em,  Fee,  Faw, 

Fum! 
(Ez   though   she   hed  n't  fools  enough  to 

home), 
So  they  Ve  returned  'em  — 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


475 


THE    BRIDGE 

Hev  they  ?   Wai,  by  heaven, 
Thet 's   the  wust   news   I  've  heerd  sence 

Seventy-seven  ! 

By  George,  I  meant  to  say,  though  I  declare 
It 's  'most  enough  to  make  a  deacon  swear. 

THE     MONIMENT 

Now   don't   go  off   half-cock:  folks  never 
gains  91 

By  usin'  pepper-sarse  instid  o'  brains. 
Come,  neighbor,  you  don't  understau'  — 

THE    BRIDGE 

How?  Hey? 
Not  understan'?   Why,   wut 's  to  bender. 

pray? 

Must  I  go  huntin'  round  to  find  a  chap 
To  tell  me  when  my  face  hez  bed  a  slap  ? 

THE     MONIMENT 

See  here:  the  British  they  found  out  a  flaw 
In  Cap'n  Wilkes's  readin'  o'  the  law 
(They  make  all  laws,  you  know,  an'  so,  o' 

course, 
It's  nateral  they  should   understan'  their 

force):  100 

He  'd  oughto  ha'  took  the  vessel  into  port, 
An'  bed  her  sot  on  by  a  reg'lar  court; 
She  was  a  mail-ship,  an'  a  steamer,  tu, 
An'  thet,  they  say,  hez  changed  the  pint  o' 

view, 

Coz  the  old  practice,  bein'  meant  for  sails, 
Ef  tried  upon  a  steamer,  kind  o'  fails ; 
You  may   take   out    despatches,    but  you 

mus'  n't 
Take  nary  man  — 

THE   BRIDGE 

You  mean  to  say,  you  dus'  n't  ! 
Changed   pint    o'    view  !     No,    no,  —  it  's 

overboard 
With  law   an'    gospel,    when    their   ox  is 

gored !  no 

I  tell  ye,  England's  law,  on  sea  an'  land, 
Hez  oilers  ben, '  /  've  gut  the  heaviest  hand.'' 
Take  nary  man  ?   Fine  preachin'  from  her 

lips  ! 
Why,   she    hez  taken   hunderds  from  our 

ships, 

An'  would  agin,  an'  swear  she  had  a  right  to, 
Ef  we  warn't  strong  enough  to  be  perlite  to. 
Of  all  the  sarse  thet  I  can  call  to  mind, 
England  (loos   make    the  most  onpleasant 

kind: 


It  's  you  're  the    sinner  oilers,  she  's    the 

saint; 
Wut 's  good  's  all  English,  all  thet  is  n't 

ain't;  120 

Wut  profits  her  is  oilers  right  an'  just, 
An'  ef  you  don't    read    Scriptur  so,  you 

must; 

She  's  praised  herself  ontil  she  fairly  thinks 
There  ain't  no    light    in  Natur  when  she 

winks; 
Hain't  she  the  Ten  Comman'ments  in  her 

pus? 
Could  the  world  stir  'thout  she  went,  tu, 

ez  nus  ? 

She  ain't  like  other  mortals,  thet  's  a  fact: 
She  never  stopped  the  habus-corpus  act, 
Nor  specie  payments,  nor  she  never  yet 
Cut  down  the  int'rest  on  her  public  debt;  130 
She  don't   put  down    rebellions,    lets    'em 

breed, 

An'  's  oilers  willin'  Ireland  should  secede ; 
She  's  all  thet 's  honest,  honnable,  an'  fair, 
An'  when  the  vartoos  died  they  made  her 

heir. 

THE    MONIMENT 

Wai,  wal,  two  wrongs  don't  never  make  a 

right; 
Ef  we  're    mistaken,    own   up,    an'   don't 

fight: 

For  gracious'  sake,  ha 'n't  we  enough  to  du 
'thout  gettin'  up  a  fight  with  England,  tu  ? 
She  thinks  we  're  rabble-rid  — 

THE    BRIDGE 

An'  so  we  can't 
Distinguish  'twixt    You   oughtn  't   an'  You 

sha'n't !  i40 

She  jedges  by  herself;  she  's  no  idear 
How  't  stiddies  folks  to  give  'em  their  fair 

sheer: 
The  odds    'twixt  her  an'  us    is  plain  's  a 

steeple,  — 
Her  People's  turned  to  Mob,  our  Mob's 

turned  People. 

THE   MONIMENT 

She  's  riled  jes'  now  — 

THE   BRIDGE 

Plain  proof  her  cause  ain't  strong,  — 
The  one  thet  fust  gits  mad  's  'most  oilers 

wrong. 
Why,  sence  she  helped  in  lickin'  Nap  the 

Fust 
An'  pricked  a  bubble  jest  agoin'  to  bust, 


476 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


With  Rooshy,  Prooshy,  Austry,  all  assisting 

Th'  ain't  nut  a  face  but  wut  she  's  shook 

her  fist  in,  1 50 

Ez  though  she  done  it   all,  an'  ten   times 

more, 

An'  nothin'  never  bed  gut  done  afore, 
Nor  never  could  agin,  'thout  she  wuz  spliced 
On  to  one  eend  an'  gin  th'  old  airth  a  hoist. 
She  is  some  punkins,  thet  I  wun't  deny 
(For  ain't  she  some  related  to  you  V  I  ?), 
But  there  's  a  few  small  intrists  here  be- 
low 

Outside  the  counter  o'  John  Bull  an'  Co, 
An'  though    they     can't    conceit    how    't 

should  be  so, 

I  guess  the  Lord    druv    down    Creation's 

spiles  160 

'thout  no  gret  helpin'  from  the  British  Isles, 

An'  could  contrive  to    keep  things  pooty 

stiff 
Ef  they   withdrawed    from    business  in  a 

miff; 

I  ha 'n't  no  patience  with  sech  swellin'  fel- 
lers ez 

Think  God  can't  forge  'thout  them  to  blow 
the  bellerses. 


THE    MON1MENT 


You  're  oilers  quick  to  set  your  back  aridge, 

Though  't  suits  a  tom-cat  more  'n  a  sober 
bridge : 

Don't  you  git  het:  they  thought  the  thing 
was  planned; 

They  '11  cool  off  when  they  come  to  under- 
stand. 

THE    BRIDGE 

Ef  thet's  wut  you  expect,  you'll  hev   to 

wait;  170 

Folks  never  understand  the  folks  they  hate : 
She'll   fin'  some    other   grievance   jest  ez 

good, 

'fore  the  month  's  out,  to  git  misunderstood. 
England  cool  off  !     She  '11  do  it,  ef  she  sees 
She  's  run  her  head  into  a  swarm  o'  bees. 
I  ain't  so  prejudiced  ez  wut  you  spose: 
I  hev  thought  England  was  the  best  thet 

goes; 
Remember   (no,  you   can't),  when   /  was 

reared, 
God  save   the   King  was  all  the  tune  you 

heerd: 

But  it 's  enough  to  turn  Wachuset  roun'  180 
This    stumpin'    fellers    when    you    think 

they  're  down. 


THE    MONIMENT 

But,  neighbor,  ef  they  prove  their  claim  at 

law, 

The  best  way  is  to  settle,  an'  not  jaw. 
An'  don't  le'  's  mutter  'bout  the  awfle  bricks 
We  '11  give    'em,   ef   we  ketch  'em   in  a 

fix: 

That  'ere  's  most  frequently  the  kin'  o'  talk 
Of  critters  can't  be  kicked  to  toe  the  chalk; 
Your  '  You  '11  see  nex'  time  ! '  an'  '  Look 

out  bumby  ! ' 

'Most  oilers  ends  in  eatin'  umble-pie. 
'T  wun't  pay  to  scringe  to  England  :  will 

it  pay  I9o 

To   fear  thet  meaner  bully,  old  '  They  '11 

say'? 
Suppose  they   du   say:    words   are  dreffle 

bores, 

But  they  ain't  quite  so  bad  ez  seventy-fours. 
Wut  England  wants  is  jest  a  wedge  to  fit 
Where  it  '11  help  to  widen  out  our  split : 
She  's  found  her  wedge,  an'  't  ain't  for  us 

to  come 

An'  lend  the  beetle  thet 's  to  drive  it  home. 
For  growed-up  folks  like  us  't  would  be  a 

scandle, 
When  we  git  sarsed,  to  fly  right  off  the 

handle. 
England  ain't  all  bad,   coz   she  thinks  us 

blind :  200 

Ef  she  can't  change  her  skin,  she  can  her 

mind; 

An'  we  shall  see  her  change  it  double-quick, 
Soon  ez  we  've  proved  thet  we  're  a-goin' 

to  lick. 

She  an'  Columby  's  gut  to  be  fas'  friends: 
For    the    world    prospers   by   their  privit 

ends: 
'T  would  put  the  clock  back  all  o'  fifty 

years 
Ef  they  should  fall  together  by  the  ears. 

THE    BRIDGE 

I  'gree  to  thet;  she  's  nigh  us  to  wut  France 
is; 

But  then  she  '11  hev  to  make  the  fust  ad- 
vances; 

We  've  gut  pride,  tu,  an'  gut  it  by  good 
rights,  2 10 

An'  ketch  me  stoopin'  to  pick  up  the  mites 

O'  condescension  she  '11  be  lettiii'  fall 

When  she  finds  out  we  ain't  dead  arter  all ! 

I  tell  ye  wut,  it  takes  more  'n  one  good 
week 

Afore  my  nose  forgits  it 's  bed  a  tweak. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


477 


THE   MONIMENT 

She'll  come    out   right   bumby,   thet   I'll 

engage, 

Soon  ez  she  gits  to  seein'  we  're  of  age ; 
This  talkin'  down  o'  hers  ain't  wuth  a  fuss ; 
It 's  nat'ral  ez  nut  likin'  't  is  to  us ;  2 19 

Ef  we  're  agoin'  to  prove  we  be  growed-up, 
'T  wun't  be  by  barkin'  like  a  tarrier  pup, 
But  turnin'  to  an'  makin'  things  ez  good 
Ez  wut  we  're  oilers  braggin'  that  we  could ; 
We  're    boun'  to   be  good   friends,   an'  so 

we  'd  oughto, 
In  spite  of  all  the  fools  both  sides  the  water. 

THE    BRIDGE 

I  b'lieve  thet 's   so  ;  but   harken    in   your 

ear, — 
I  'm  older  'n  you, — Peace  wun't  keep  house 

.with  Fear: 
Ef  you  want  peace,  the  thing  you  've  gut  tu 

du 

Is  jes'  to  show  you  're  up  to  fightin',  tu. 
I  recollect  how  sailors'  rights  was  won,   230 
Yard  locked  in  yard,   hot    gun-lip  kissin' 

gun: 

Why,  afore  thet,  John  Bull  sot  up  thet  he 
Hed  gut  a  kind  o'  mortgage  on  the  sea; 
You'd    thought     he     held    by    Gran'ther 

Adam's  will, 
An'  ef  you  knuckle   down,  he  '11  think  so 

still. 

Better  thet  all  our  ships  an'  all  their  crews 
Should   sink   to   rot  in  ocean's  dreamless 

ooze, 

Each  torn  flag  wavin'  chellenge  ez  it  went, 
An'  each  dumb  gun  a  brave  man's  moui- 

ment, 
Than   seek    sech   peace    ez   only   cowards 

crave :  240 

Give  me  the  peace  of  dead  men  or  of  brave ! 

THE   MONIMENT 

I  say,  ole  boy,  it  ain't  the  Glorious  Fourth: 
You  'd  oughto  larned  'fore  this  wut  talk 

wuz  worth. 

It  ain't  our  nose  thet  gits  put  out  o'  jint; 
It 's  England  thet  gives  up  her  dearest  pint. 
We  've  gut,  I  tell  ye  now,  enough  to  du 
In  our  own  fem'ly  fight,  afore  we  're  thru. 
I  hoped,  las'  spring,  jest   arter   Sumter's 

shame, 
When  every  flag-staff  flapped  its  tethered 

flame, 
An'   all   the   people,    startled    from   their 

doubt,  250 


Come    must'rin'  to   the   flag    with  sech  a 

shout,  — 

I  hoped  to  see  things  settled  'fore  this  fall, 
The  Rebbles  licked,  Jeff  Davis  hanged,  an' 

all; 
Then  come  Bull  Run,  an'  sence  then  I  've 

ben  waitin' 

Like  boys  in  Jennooary  thaw  for  skatin', 
Nothin'  to  du  but  watch  my  shadder's  trace 
Swing,  like  a  ship  at  anchor,  roun'  my  base, 
With  daylight's  flood  an'  ebb:  it's  gittin' 

slow, 

An'  I  'most  think  we  'd  better  let  'em  go. 
I  tell  ye  wut,  this  war  's  a-goin'  to  cost  — 

THE    BRIDGE 

An'  I  tell  you  it  wun't  be  money  lost;  261 
Taxes  milks  dry,  but,  neighbor,  you  '11  allow 
Thet  havin'  things  onsettled  kills  the  cow: 
We  've  gut  to  fix  this  thing  for  good  an'  all ; 
It 's  no  use  buildin'  wut 's  a-goin'  to  fall. 
I  'm  older  'n  you,  an'  1  've  seen  things  an' 

men, 

An'  my  experunce,  —  tell  ye  wut  it 's  ben: 
Folks  thet  worked  thorough  was  the  ones 

thet  thriv, 

But  bad  work  f  oilers  ye  ez  long 's  ye  live ; 
You  can't  git  red  on  't;  jest  ez  sure  ez  sin, 
It 's  oilers  askin'  to  be  done  agin:  271 

Ef  we  should  part,  it  would  n't  be  a  week 
'Fore  your  soft^soddered  peace  would  spring 

aleak. 
We  've  turned  our  cuffs  up,  but,  to  put  her 

thru, 

We  must  git  mad  an'  off  with  jackets,  tu; 
'T  wun't  du  to  think  thet  killin'  ain't  per- 

lite,  — 

You  've  gut  to  be  in  airnest,  ef  you  fight; 
Why,  two  thirds  o'  the  Rebbles  'ould  cut 

dirt, 
Ef  they  once  thought  thet  Guv'ment  meant 

to  hurt; 

An'  I  du  wish  our  Gin'rals  bed  in  mind  280 
The  folks  in  front  more  than  the  folks  be- 
hind; 

You  wun't  do  much  ontil  you  think  it 's  God, 
An'  not  constitoounts,  thet  holds  the  rod; 
WTe  want  some  more  o'  Gideon's  sword,  I 

jedge, 

For  proclamations  ha'n't  no  gret  of  edge ; 
There  's  nothin'  for  a  cancer  but  the  knife, 
Onless  you  set  by  't  more  than  by  your  life. 
/  've  seen  hard  times;  I  see  a  war  begun 
Thet  folks  thet  love  their  bellies  never  'd 

won; 


478 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Pharo's  lean  kine  hung  on  for  seven  long 

year;  290 

But  when 't  was  done,  we  did  n't  count  it 

dear; 

Why,  law  an'  order,  honor,  civil  right, 
Ef  they  ain't  wuth  it,  wut  is  wuth  a  fight  ? 
I  'm  older  'n  you:  the  plough,  the  axe,  the 

mill, 

All  kin's  o'  labor  an'  all  kin's  o'  skill, 
Would  be  a  rabbit  in  a  wile-cat's  claw, 
Ef  't  warn't  for  thet  slow  critter,  'stablished 

law; 

Onsettle  thet,  an'  all  the  world  goes  whiz, 
A  screw's  gut  loose  in  everythin'  there  is: 
Good  buttresses  once  settled,  don't  you  fret 
An' stir  'em;  take  a  bridge's  word  for  thet! 
Young  folks  are  smart,  but  all  ain't  good 

thet's  new;  302 

I  guess  the  gran'thers  they  knowed  sunthin', 

tu. 

THE   MONIMENT 

Amen  to  thet !  build  sure  in  the  beginnin': 
An*  then  don't  never  tech  the  underpinnin': 
Th'  older  a  guv'ment  is,  the  better  't  suits; 
New  ones  hunt  folks's  corns  out  like  new 

boots: 
Change  jes'   for  change,  is  like  them  big 

hotels 
Where  they  shift  plates,  an'  let  ye  live  on 

smells. 

THE    BRIDGE 

Wai,  don't  give  up  afore  the  ship  goes 
down:  310 

It 's  a  stiff  gale,  but  Providence  wun't 
drown ; 

An'  God  wun't  leave  us  yit  to  sink  or  swim, 

Ef  we  don't  fail  to  du  wut 's  right  by  Him. 

This  land  o'  ourn,  I  tell  ye,  's  gut  to  be 

A  better  country  than  man  ever  see. 

I  feel  my  sperit  swellin'  with  a  cry 

Thet  seems  to  say,  '  Break  forth  an*  pro- 
phesy ! ' 

O  strange  New  World,  thet  yit  wast  never 
young, 

Whose  youth  from  thee  by  gripin'  need 
was  wrung, 

Brown  foundlin'  o'  the  woods,  whose  baby- 
bed  3» 

Was  prowled  roun'  by  the  Injun's  cracklin' 
tread, 

An'  who  grew'st  strong  thru  shifts  an'  wants 
an'  pains, 

Nussed  by  stern  men  with  empires  in  their 
brains, 


Who   saw   in   vision   their   young   Ishmel 

strain 

With  each  hard  hand  a  vassal  ocean's  mane, 
Thou,  skilled  by  Freedom  an'  by  gret  events 
To  pitch  new  States  ez  Old- World  men 

pitch  tents, 
Thou,  taught  by  Fate  to  know  Jehovah's 

plan 

Thet  man's  devices  can't  unmake  a  man, 
An'   whose    free   latch-string    irever    was 

drawed  in  330 

Against  the  poorest  child  of  Adam's  kin, — 
The  grave  's  not  dug  where  traitor  hands 

shall  lay 

In  fearful  haste  thy  murdered  corse  away  ! 
I  see  — 

Jest  here  some  dogs  begun  to  bark, 
So  thet  I  lost  old  Concord's  last  remark: 
I  listened  long,  but  all  I  seemed  to  hear 
Was  dead  leaves  gossipin'  on  some  birch- 
trees  near; 

But  ez  they  hed  n't  no  gret  things  to  say, 
An'  sed  'em  often,  I  come  right  away, 
An',  walkin'  home'ards,   jest  to  pass  the 
time,  34o 

I  put  some  thoughts  thet  bothered  me  in 

rhyme ; 

I  hain't  hed  time  to  fairly  try  'em  on, 
But  here  they  be  —  it 's 

JONATHAN   TO   JOHN 

IT  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 
When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John,  — 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull  ! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  '  I  guess 
We  know  it  now,'  sez  he, 
1  The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law,  350 

Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet 's  fit  for  you  an'  me  ! ' 

You  wonder  why  we  're  hot,  John  ? 

Your  mark  wuz  on  the  guns, 
The  neutral  guns,  thet  shot,  John, 
Our  brothers  an'  our  sons: 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  '  I  guess 
There  's  human  blood,'  sez  he, 
'  By  fits  an'  starts,  in  Yankee  hearts, 

Though  't  may  surprise  J.  B.         360 
More  'n  it  would  you  an'  me.' 

Ef  /  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 
On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


479 


Would  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 
To  wait  an'  sue  their  heirs  ? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  '  I  guess, 

I  on'y  guess,'  sez  he, 
4 Thet  ef  Vattel  on  his  toes  f ell, 

'T  would  kind  o'  rile  J.  B., 

Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  ! '  370 

Who  made  the  law  thet  hurts,  John, 

Heads  f  win,  —  ditto  tails  f 

}  J.  B.'  was  on  his  shirts,  John, 

Onless  my  memory  fails. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  4  I  guess 
(I'm  good  at  thet),'  sez  he, 
1  Thet  sauce  for  goose  ain't  jest  the  juice 
For  ganders  with  J.  B., 
No  more  'n  with  you  or  me  ! ' 

When  your  rights  was  our  wrongs,  John, 

You  did  n't  stop  for  fuss,  —  38i 

Britanny's  trident  prongs,  John, 
Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  '  I  guess, 
Though  physic  's  good,'  sez  he, 
4  It  does  n't  foller  thet  he  can  swaller 
Prescriptions  signed  "  J.  B.," 
Put  up  by  you  an'  me  ! ' 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John: 

You  mus'  n'  take  it  hard,  590 

Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 
It 's  jest  your  own  back-yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S,  sez  he,  '  I  guess, 
Ef  thet  's  his  claim,'  sez  he, 
'  The  fencin '-stuff  '11  cost  enough 
To  bust  up  friend  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  ! ' 

Why  talk  so  dreffle  big,  John, 

Of  honor  when  it  meant 
You  did  n't  care  a  fig,  John,  4<x> 

But  jest  for  ten  per  cent  f 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  « I  guess 
He  's  like  the  rest,'  sez  he: 
4  When  all  is  done,  it 's  number  one 
Thet  's  nearest  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  t'  you  an'  me  ! ' 

We  give  the  critters  back,  John, 

Cos  Abram  thought  't  was  right; 
It  warn't  your  bullyin'  clack,  John, 

Provokin'  us  to  fight.  410 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  '  I  guess 
We  've  a  hard  row,'  sez  he, 
•  To  hoe  jest  now;  but  thet,  somehow, 


May  happen  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  ! ' 

We  ain't  so  weak  an'  poor,  John, 

With  twenty  million  people, 
An'  close  to  every  door,  John, 
A  school-house  an'  a  steeple. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  4  I  guess,  43* 

It  is  a  fact,'  sez  he, 
4  The  surest  plan  to  make  a  Man 
Is,  think  him  so,  J.  B., 
Ez  much  ez  you  or  me  ! ' 

Our  folks  believe  in  Law,  John; 

An'  it 's  for  her  sake,  now, 
They  've  left  the  axe  an'  saw,  John, 
The  anvil  an'  the  plough. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  '  I  guess, 
Ef  't  warn't  for  law,'  sez  he,  430 

4  There  'd  be  one  shindy  from  here  to  Indy; 
An'  thet  don't  suit  J.  B. 
(When  't  ain't  'twixt  you  an'  me  !  )  ' 

We  know  we  've  got  a  cause,  John, 

Thet  's  honest,  just,  an'  true; 
We  thought  't  would  win  applause,  John, 
Ef  nowheres  else,  from  you. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  « I  guess 
His  love  of  right,'  sez  he, 
4  Hangs  by  a  rotten  fibre  o'  cotton:  44o 

There  's  natur'  in  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  'z  in  you  an'  me  ! ' 

The  South  says, 4  Poor  folks  down  ! '  John, 

An'  4  All  men  up  !  '  say  we,  — 
White,  yaller,  black,  an'  brown,  John: 
Now  which  is  your  idee  ? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  '  I  guess, 
John  preaches  wal,'  sez  he; 
4  But,  sermon  thru,  an'  come  to  du, 

Why,  there  's  the  old  J.  B.  4y 

A-crowdin'  you  an'  me  ! ' 

Shall  it  be  love,  or  hate,  John  ? 

It  's  you  thet  's  to  decide; 
Ain't  your  bonds  held  by  Fate,  John 
Like  all  the  world's  beside  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  *  I  guess 
Wise  men  forgive,'  sez  he, 
4  But  not  forgit;  an'  some  time  yit 
Thet  truth  may  strike  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  ! '  4eo 

God  means  to  make  this  land,  John, 
Clear  thru,  from  sea  to  sea, 


480 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Believe  an'  understand,  John, 
The  wuth  o'  bein'  free. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  '  I  guess, 
God's  price  is  high,'  sez  he; 
'  But  nothin'  else  than  wut  He  sells 
Wears  long,  an'  thet  J.  B. 
May  larn,  like  you  an'  me  ! ' 
December,  1861.  February, 


NO.  VI 

SUNTHIN'  IN  THE  PASTORAL 
LINE  * 

ONCE  git  a  smell  o'  musk  into  a  draw, 
An'  it  clings  hold  like  precerdents  in  law: 
Your  gra'ma'am  put  it  there,  —  when,  good- 
ness knows,  — 

To  jes'  this-worldify  her  Sunday-clo'es  ; 
But  the  old  chist  wun't  sarve  her  gran'son's 

wife 
(For,    'thout  new   funnitoor,  wut  good   in 

life?), 
An'   so   ole   clawfoot,    from   the   precinks 

dread 

O'  the  spare  chamber,  slinks  into  the  shed, 
Where,  dim  with  dust,  it  fust  or  last  sub- 
sides 

To  holdin'  seeds  an'  fifty  things  besides;  10 
But  better  days  stick  fast  in  heart  an'  husk, 
An'  all  you  keep  in  't  gits  a  scent  o'  musk. 

Jes'  so  with  poets:  wut  they  've  airly  read 
Gits  kind  o'  worked  into  their  heart  an' 

head, 
So  's  't  they  can't  seem  to  write  but  jest  on 

sheers 

With  f  urrin  countries  or  played-out  ideers, 
Nor  hev  a  feelin',  ef  it  doos  n't  smack 
O'  wut   some  critter  chose   to   feel   'way 

back: 
This  makes  'em  talk  o'  daisies,  larks,  an' 

things, 
Ez  though  we  'd  nothin'  here  that  blows  an' 

sings  20 

'  He  [Arthur  Hugh  Clough]  often  suggested  that  I 
should  try  my  hand  at  some  Yankee  Pastorals,  which 
would  admit  of  more  sentiment  and  a  higher  tone  with- 
out foregoing  the  advantage  offered  by  the  dialect.  I 
hare  never  completed  anything  of  the  kind,  but,  in  this 
Second  Series,  both  my  remembrance  of  his  counsel 
and  the  deeper  feeling  called  up  by  the  great  interests 
at  stake,  led  me  to  venture  some  passages  nearer  to 
what  is  called  poetical  than  could  have  been  admitted 
without  incongruity  into  the  former  series.  (LOWELL,  in 
the  '  Introduction'  to  the  Siglow  Papers,  1866.) 


(Why,  I  'd  give  more  for  one  live  bobolink 
Than  a  square  mile  o'  larks  in  printer's 

ink),— 
This  makes  'em  think  our  fust  o'  May  is 

May, 
Which  't  ain't,  for  all  the  almanicks  can 


O  little  city-gals,  don't  never  go  it 
Blind  on  the  word  o'  noospaper  or  poet ! 
They  're  apt  to  puff,  an'  May-day  seldom 

looks 

Up  in  the  country  ez  't  doos  in  books; 
They  're  no  more  like  than  hornets'-nests 

an'  hives, 

Or  printed  sarmons  be  to  holy  lives.          30 
I,  with   my   trouses   perched   on  cowhide 

boots, 

Tuggin'  my  foundered  feet  out  by  the  roots. 
Hev  seen  ye  come  to  fling  on  April's  hearse 
Your  muslin  nosegays  from  the  milliner's, 
Puzzlin'  to  find  dry  ground  your  queen  to 

choose, 
An'  dance  your  throats  sore  in  morocker 


I  've  seen  ye  an'  felt  proud,  thet,  come  wut 

would, 

Our  Pilgrim  stock  wuz  pethed  with  hardi- 
hood. 
Pleasure  doos  make  us  Yankees   kind  o' 

winch, 

Ez  though 't  wuz  sunthin'  paid  for  by  the 
inch ;  40 

But  yit  we  du  contrive  to  worry  thru, 
Ef  Dooty  tells  us  thet  the  thing 's  to  du, 
An'  kerry  a  hollerday,  ef  we  set  out, 
Ez  stiddily  ez  though  't  wuz  a  redoubt. 

I,  country-born  an'  bred,  know  where  to  find 
Some  blooms  thet  make  the  season  suit  the 

mind, 
An'  seem  to  metch  the  doubtin'  bluebird's 

notes,  — 

Half-vent'rin'  liverworts  in  furry  coats, 
Bloodroots,  whose  rolled-up  leaves  ef  you 

oncurl, 

Each  on  'em 's  cradle  to  a  baby-pearl,  —  5o 
But  these  are  jes'  Spring's  pickets;  sure  ez 

sin, 

The  rebble  frosts  '11  try  to  drive  'em  in ; 
For  half  our  May  's  so  awfully  like  May  n't, 
't  would  rile  a  Shaker  or  an  evrige  saint; 
Though  I  own  up  I  like  our  back'ard  springs 
Thet  kind  o'  haggle  with  their  greens  an' 

things, 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


An*  when  you  'most  give  up,  'uthout  more 
words 

Toss  the  fields  full  o'  blossoms,  leaves,  an' 
birds; 

Thet  's  Northun  natur',  slow  an'  apt  to 
doubt, 

But  when  it  doos  git  stirred,  ther'  's  no  gin- 
out  !  60 

Fust  come  the  blackbirds  clatt'rin'  in  tall 

trees, 

An'  settlin'  things  in  windy  Congresses,  — 
Queer  politicians,  though,  for  I  '11  be 

skinned 

Ef  all  on  'em  don't  head  aginst  the  wind, 
'fore  long  the  trees  begin  to  show  belief,  — 
The  rnaple  crimsons  to  a  coral-reef, 
Then  saffern  swarms  swing  off  from  all  the 

willers 

So  plump  they  look  like  yaller  caterpillars, 
Then  gray  hossches'nuts  leetle  hands  un- 
fold 

Softer  'n  a  baby's  be  at  three  days  old:  70 
Thet 's  robin- redbreast's  almauick;  he 

knows 

Thet  arter  this  ther'  's  only  blossom-snows; 
So,  choosin'  out  a  handy  crotch  an'  spouse, 
He  goes  to  plast'rin'  his  adobe  house. 

Then  seems  to  come  a  hitch,  —  things  lag 

behind, 
Till  some  fine  mornin'  Spring  makes  up  her 

mind, 
An'   ez,   when   snow-swelled   rivers  cresh 

their  dams 
Heaped-up  with  ice  thet  dovetails  in  an' 

jams, 
A  leak  comes  spirtin'  thru  some  pin-hole 

cleft, 
Grows  stronger,  fercer,  tears  out  right  an' 

left,  80 

Then  all  the   waters   bow  themselves   an' 

come, 

Suddin,  in  one  gret  slope  o'  shedderin'  foam, 
Jes'  so  our  Spring  gits  everythin'  in  tune 
An'  gives  one  leap  from  Aperl  into  June: 
Then   all   comes   crowdin'   in;    afore   you 

think, 
Young  oak-leaves  mist  the  side-hill  woods 

with  pink; 

The  catbird  in  the  laylock-bush  is  loud; 
The  orchards  turn  to  heaps  o'  rosy  cloud; 
Red-cedars  blossom  tu,  though  few  folks 

know  it, 
An'  look  all  dipt  in  sunshine  like  a  poet;  90 


The  lime-trees   pile   their   solid   stacks  o' 


An'  drows'ly  simmer  with  the  bees'  sweet 

trade; 
In    ellum-shrouds    the     flashin'    hangbird 

clings 
An'  for   the  summer  vy'ge  his   hammock 

slings ; 
All  down  the  loose-walled  lanes  in  archin' 

bowers 
The    barb'ry  droops    its   strings  o'  golden 

flowers, 
Whose  shrinkin'  hearts  the  school-gals  love 

to  try 
With  pins,  —  they  :11  worry  yourn  so,  boys, 

bimeby  ! 
But  I  don't  love  your  cat'logue  style,  —  do 

you?  — 

Ez  ef  to  sell  off  Natur'  by  vendoo;  i<x> 

One  word  with  blood  in  't  's  twice  ez  good 

ez  two: 

'nuff  sed,  Jime's  bridesman,  poet  o'  the  year, 
Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink,  is  here; 
Half-hid  in  tip-top  apple-blooms  he  swings, 
Or  climbs  aginst  the  breeze  with  quiverin' 

wings, 

Or,  givin'  way  to  't  in  a  mock  despair, 
Runs  down,  a  brook  o'  laughter,  thru  the 


I  ollus  feel  the  sap  start  in  my  veins 

In   Spring,  with   curus   heats   an'   prickly 

pains, 
Thet   drive   me,  when   I  git  a  chance,  to 

walk  I10 

Off  by  myself  to  hev  a  privit  talk 
With  a  queer  critter  thet  can't  seem  to 

'gree 

Along  o'  me  like  most  folks,  —  Mister  Me. 
Ther'  's  times  when  I  'm  unsoshle  ez  a  stone, 
An'  sort  o'  suffercate  to  be  alone,  — 
I'm  crowded  jes'  to  think  thet  folks  are 

nigh, 

An'  can't  bear  nothin'  closer  than  the  sky; 
Now  the  wind  's  full  ez  shifty  in  the  mind 
Ez  wut  it  is  ou'-doors,  ef  I  ain't  blind, 
An'   sometimes,   in    the    fairest    sou'west 

weather,  J20 

My  innard  vane  pints  east  for  weeks  to- 
gether, 

My  natur'  gits  all  goose-flesh,  an'  my  sins 
Come  drizzlin'  on  my  conscience  sharp  ez 

pins: 

Wai,  et  sech  times  I  jes'  slip  out  o'  sight 
An'  take  it  out  in  a  fair  stan'-up  fight 


482 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


With  the  one  cuss  I  can't  lay  on  the  shelf, 
The  crook'dest  stick  in  all  the  heap,  —  My- 
self. 

T  wuz  so  las'  Sabbath  arter  meetin'-time : 
Findin'  my  feelin's  would  n't  noways  rhyme 
With  nobody's,  but  off  the  hendle  flew     I3o 
An'  took  things  from  an  east-wind  pint  o' 

view, 

I  started  off  to  lose  me  in  the  hills 
Where   the   pines   be,  up   back  o'    'Siah's 

Mills: 
Pines,  ef  you  're  blue,  are  the  best  friends 

I  know, 
They  mope  an'  sigh  an'  sheer  your  feelin's 

so, — 
They  hesh  the   ground   beneath   so,  tu,  I 

swan, 

You  half-forgit  you  've  gut  a  body  on. 
Ther'  's  a  small  school'us'  there  where  four 

roads  meet, 

The  door-steps  hollered  out  by  little  feet, 
An'  side-posts   carved   with  names  whose 

owners  grew  140 

To  gret  men,  some  on  'em,  an'  deacons,  tu; 
't  ain't  used  no  longer,  coz  the  town  hez  gut 
A  high-school,  where  they  teach  the  Lord 

knows  wut: 

Three-story  larnin'  's  pop'lar  now;  I  guess 
We  thriv'  ez  wal  on  jes'  two  stories  less, 
For  it  strikes  me  ther'  's  sech  a  thing  ez 

sinnin' 

By  overloadin'  children's  underpinnin' : 
Wal,  here  it  wuz  I  larned  my  A  B  C, 
An'  it 's  a  kind  o'  favorite  spot  with  me. 

We're  curus  critters:  Now  ain't  jes'  the 

minute  1 50 

Thet  ever  fits  us  easy  while  we  're  in  it ; 
Long  ez  't  wuz  f utur',  't  would  be  perfect 

bliss,  — 
Soon  ez  it 's  past,  thet  time  's  wuth  ten  o' 

this; 

An'  yit  there  ain't  a  man  thet  need  be  told 
Thet  Now 's  the  only  bird  lays  eggs  o'  gold. 
A  knee-high  lad,  I  used  to  plot  an'  plan 
An'  think  'twuz  life's  cap-sheaf  to  be  a 

man; 

Now,  gittin'  gray,  there  's  nothin'  I  enjoy 
Like  dreamin'  back  along  into  a  boy: 
So  the  ole  school'us'  is  a  place  I  choose  160 
Afore  all  others,  ef  I  want  to  muse ; 
I  set  down  where  I  used  to  set,  an'  git 
My  boyhood  back,  an'  better  things  with 

it, — 


Faith,  Hope,  an'  sunthin',  ef  it  is  n't  Cher- 

rity,      . 
It 's  want  o'  guile,  an'  thet 's  ez  gret  a  rer- 

While  Fancy's  cushin',  free  to  Prince  and 
Clown, 

Makes  the  hard  bench  ez  soft  ez  milk- 
weed-down. 

Now,  'fore  I  knowed,  thet  Sabbath  arter- 

noon 

When  I  sot  out  to  tramp  myself  in  tune, 
I  found  me  in  the  school'us'  on  my  seat,  170 
Drummin'   the   march  to  No-wheres  with 

my  feet. 
Thinkin'  o'  uothin',  I  've   heerd   ole   folks 

say 

Is  a  hard  kind  o'  dooty  in  its  way: 
It 's  thinkin'  everythin'  you  ever  knew, 
Or  ever  hearn,  to  make  your  feelin's  blue. 
I  sot  there  Iryin'  thet  on  for  a  spell: 
I  thought  o'  the  Rebellion,  then  o'  Hell, 
Which  some  folks  tell  ye  now  is  jest  a  met- 

terfor 

(A  the'ry,  p'raps,  it  wun't  feel  none  the  bet- 
ter for) ; 
I   thought   o'    Reconstruction,    wut   we  'd 

win  1 80 

Patchin'  our  patent  self -blow-up  agin: 
I  thought  ef  this  'ere  milkin'  o'  the  wits, 
So  much   a   month,   warn't   givin'  Natur' 

fits,— 
Ef  folks  warn't  druv,  findin'  their  own  milk 

fail, 

To  work  the  cow  thet  hez  an  iron  tail, 
An'  ef  idees  'thout  ripenin'  in  the  pan 
Would  send  up  cream  to  humor  ary  man: 
From  this  to  thet  I  let  my  worryin'  creep, 
Till  finally  I  must  ha'  fell  asleep. 

Our  lives  in  sleep  are  some  like  streams 
thet  glide  .90 

'twixt  flesh  an'  sperrit  boundin'  on  each 
side, 

Where  both  shores'  shadders  kind  o'  mix 
an'  mingle 

In  sunthin'  thet  ain't  jes'  like  either  single  ; 

An'  when  you  cast  off  moorin's  from  To- 
day, 

An'  down  towards  To-morrer  drift  away, 

The  imiges  thet  tengle  on  the  stream 

Make  a  new  upside-down 'ard  world  o' 
dream : 

Sometimes  they  seem  like  sunrise-streaks 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


483 


O'  wut  '11  be  in  Heaven  on  Sabbath-morn- 

in's, 
An',  mixed    right    in    ez    ef   jest  out  o' 

spite,  200 

Sunthin'  thet  says  your  supper  ain't  gone 

right. 

I  'm  gret  on  dreams,  an'  often  when  I  wake, 
I  've  lived  so  much  it  makes  my  mem'ry 

ache, 
An'   can't   skurce  take   a   cat-nap   in   my 

cheer 
'thout  hevin'  'em,  some  good,  some  bad,  all 

queer. 

Now    I    wuz    settin'    where    I  'd   ben,   it 

seemed, 

An'  ain't  sure  yit  whether  I  r'ally  dreamed, 
Nor,  ef  I  did,  how  long  I  might  ha'  slep', 
When  I  hearn   some   un  stompin'  up  the 

step, 
An'   lookin'  round,  ef  two  an'  two   make 

four,  2 10 

I  see  a  Pilgrim  Father  in  the  door. 
He  wore  a  steeple-hat,  tall  boots,  an'  spurs 
With  rowels  to  'em  big  ez  ches'nut-burrs, 
An'  his  gret  sword  behind  him  sloped  away 
Long  'z  a  man's  speech  thet  dunno  wut  to 

say.— 

1  Ef  your  name  's   Biglow,  an'  your  given- 
name 

Hosee,'  sez  he,  '  it 's  arter  you  I  came ; 
I  'm    your   gret-gran'ther    multiplied    by 

three.'  — 
'  My  wut  f  '  sez  I.  — '  Your  gret-gret-gret,' 

sez  he: 
'  You  would  n't  ha'  never  ben  here  but  for 

me.  220 

Two  hundred  an'  three  year  ago  this  May 
The  ship  I  come  in  sailed  up  Boston  Bay; 
I  'd  been  a  cunnle  in  our  Civil  War,  — 
But  wut  on  airth  hev  you  gut  up  one  for  ? 
Coz  we  du  things  in  England,   't  ain't  for 

you 

To  git  a  notion  you  can  du  'em  tu: 
I  'm   told   you   write   in  public  prints:  ef 

true, 
It 's  nateral   you   should   know  a  thing  or 

two.'  — 

'Thet  air   's    an    argymunt   I   can't    en- 
dorse, — 
't  would  prove,  coz  you  wear  spurs,  you  kep' 

a  horse:  230 

For  brains,'  sez  I,  '  wutever  you  may  think, 
Ain't  boun'  to  cash    the  drafs  o'   pen-an'- 

ink,- 


Though  mos'  folks  write  ez  ef  they  hoped 

jes'  quickenin' 
The    churn    would   argoo   skim-milk    into 

thickenin' ; 
But  skim-milk  ain't  a  thing  to  change  its 

view 
O'    wut  it 's   meant  for   more  'n  a  smoky 

flue. 

But  du  pray  tell  me,  'fore  we  furder  go, 
How  in  all  Natur'  did  you  come  to  know 
'bout   our   affairs,'    sez    I,    'in   Kingdom- 
Come  ?  '  — 

'  Wai,  I  worked  round    at   sperrit-rappin' 

some,  240 

An'  danced  the  tables  till  their  legs  wuz 

gone, 

In  hopes  o'  larnin'  wut  wuz  goin'  on,' 
Sez  he,  '  but  mejums  lie  so  like  all-split 
Thet  I  concluded  it  wuz  best  to  quit. 
But,  come  now,  ef   you   wun't  confess  to 

knowin', 
You  've  some  conjectures  how  the  thing 's 

a-goin'.'  — 
'  Gran'ther,'  sez   I,    '  a  vane  warn't  never 

known 

Nor  asked  to  hev  a  jedgment  of  its  own; 
An'  yit,  ef  't  ain't  gut  rusty  in  the  jints, 
It 's  safe  to  trust  its  say  on  certin  pints:  250 
It  knows  the  wind's  opinions  to  a  T, 
An'  the  wind  settles  wut  the  weather  '11  be.' 
'  I  never  thought  a  scion  of  our  stock 
Could  grow  the  wood  to  make  a  weather- 
cock; 
When  I  wuz  younger  'n  you,  skurce  more  'n 

a  shaver, 
No  airthly  wind,'  sez  he,  '  could  make  me 

waver ! ' 
(Ez   he  said  this,  he  clinched  his  jaw  an' 

forehead, 
Hitchin'   his  belt  to   bring  his   sword-hilt 

forrard.)  — 

'  Jes  so  it  wuz  with  me,'  sez  I,  '  I  swow, 
.,  When  /  wuz   younger  'n  wut  you  see  me 
now,  —  260 

Nothin'  from  Adam's  fall  to  Huldy's  bon- 
net, 

Thet  I  warn't  full-cocked  with  my  jedg- 
ment on  it; 

But  now  I  'm  gittin'  on  in  life,  I  find 
It 's  a  sight  harder  to  make  up  my  mind,  — 
Nor  I  don't  often  try  tu,  when  events 
Will  du  it  for  me  free  of  all  expense. 
The  moral  question  's  ollus  plain  enough,  — 
It 's   jes'    the    human-natur'    side    thet  'a 
tough; 


484 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Wut  's  best  to  think  may  n't  puzzle  me  nor 

you, — 

The  pinch  comes  in  decidin'  wut  to  du-    270 
Ef   you  read  History,  all  runs  smooth  ez 


Coz  there  the   men   ain't  nothin'   more  'n 

idees,  — 

But  come  to  make  it,  ez  we  must  to-day, 
Th'  idees  hev  arms  an'  legs  an'  stop  the  way: 
It 's  easy  fixin'  things  in  facts  an'  figgers,  — 
They  can't   resist,  nor  warn't  brought  up 

with  niggers; 

But  come  to  try  your  the'ry  on,  —  why,  then 
Your   facts   an'   figgers  change  to  ign'ant 

men 
Actin'   ez   ugly  —  '  — '  Smite  'em  hip  an' 

thigh  ! ' 
Sez   gran'ther,    'and  let  every  man-child 

die  !  280 

Oh  for  three    weeks   o'   Crommle  an'  the 

Lord! 
Up,   Isr'el,   to   your   tents   an'    grind   the 

sword  ! '  — 
'Thet   kind   o'    thing  worked   wal  in   ole 

Judee, 

But  you  forgit  how  long  it 's  ben  A.  D.  ; 
You   think  thet  's   ellerkence,  —  I   call   it 

shoddy, 

A  thing,'  sez  I, '  wun't  cover  soul  nor  body; 
I  like  the  plain  all-wool  o'  common-sense, 
Thet  warms  ye   now,  an'   will  a  twelve- 
month hence. 
You  took  to   follerin'  where  the  Prophets 

beckoned, 
An',  fust  you  knowed  on,  back  come  Charles 

the  Second;  290 

Now  wut  I  want 's  to  hev  all  we  gain  stick, 
An'  not  to  start  Millennium  too  quick; 
We  hain't  to  punish  only,  but  to  keep, 
An'  the  cure  's  gut  to  go  a  cent'ry  deep.' 
'  Wall,  milk-an'-water  ain't  the  best  o'  glue,' 
Sez  he,  '  an'  so  you  '11  find  afore  you  're 

thru; 

Ef  reshness  venters  sunthin',  shilly-shally 
Loses  ez  often  wut  's  ten  times  the  vally. 
Thet  exe  of  ourn,  when  Charles's  neck  gut 

split, 

Opened  a  gap  thet  ain't  bridged  over  yit:  300 
Slav'ry  's  your  Charles,  the  Lord  hez  gin 

the  exe '  — 

'  Our  Charles,'  sez  1,  '  hez  gut  eight  mil- 
lion necks. 
The  hardest  question  ain't  the  black  man's 

right, 
The  trouble  is  to  'mancipate  the  white; 


One  's  chained  in  body  an'  can  be  sot  free, 
But  t'  other  's  chained  in  soul  to  an  idee : 
It 's  a  long  job,  but  we  shall  worry  thru  it: 
Ef  bagnets  fail,  the  spellin'-book  must  du 

it.' 

'  Hosee,'  sez  he, '  I  think  you  're  goin  to  fail : 
The   rettlesnake   ain't   dangerous    in    the 

tail;  3,o 

This  'ere  rebellion  's  nothing  but  the  ret- 

tie,- 
You  '11  stomp  on  thet  an'  think  you  've  won 

the  bettle; 
It  's  Slavery  thet 's  the  fangs  an'  thiukin' 


An'  ef  you  want  selvation,  cresh  it  dead,  — 
An'    cresh  it   suddin,   or    you  '11   larn   by 

waitin' 
Thet  Chance  wun't   stop  to   listen   to  de- 

batin'  ! '  — 
'  God's  truth  ! '  sez  I,  —  <  an'  ef  /  held  the 

club, 
An'   knowed   jes'   where   to   strike,  —  but 

there  's  the  rub  ! '  — 
'  Strike  soon,'  sez  he,  '  or  you  '11  be  deadly 

ailin',  — 
Folks  thet 's   afeared  to   fail  are    sure   o' 

failin';  320 

God  hates  your  sneakin'  creturs  thet   be- 
lieve 
He  '11   settle    things   they   run    away   an' 

leave  ! ' 
He  brought  his  foot  down  fercely,  ez  he 

spoke, 

An'  give  me  sech  a  startle  thet  I  woke. 
1862.  June,  1862. 

No.  VII 
LATEST  VIEWS  OF  MR.  BIGLOW 

EF  I  a  song  or  two  could  make 

Like  rockets  druv  by  their  own  burnin', 
All  leap  an'  light,  to  leave  a  wake 

Men's  hearts  an'   faces   skyward   turn- 
in'  !  — 
But,  it  strikes  me,  't  ain't  jest  the  time 

Fer  stringin'  words  with  settisf action: 
Wut  's  wanted  now  's  the  silent  rhyme 

'Twixt  upright  Will  an'  downright  Ac- 
tion. 

Words,  ef  you  keep  'em,  pay  their  keep, 
But  gabble  's  the  short  cut  to  ruin;       10 

It 's  gratis  (gals  half-price),  but  cheap 
At  no  rate,  ef  it  benders  doin'; 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


485 


Ther'  's  nothin'  wuss,  'less  't  is  to  set 
A  martyr-prem'um  upon  jawrin': 

Teapots  git  dangerous,  ef  you  shet 

Their  lids  down  on  'em  with  Fort  War- 


'Bout  long  enough  it 's  ben  discussed 

Who  sot  the  magazine  afire, 
An'  whether,  ef  Bob  Wickliffe  bust, 

'T  would    scare    us   more    or    blow   us 
higher.  20 

D'  ye  s'pose  the  Gret  Foreseer's  plan 

Wuz  settled  fer  him  in  town-meetin'  ? 
Or  thet  ther'  'd  ben  no  Fall  o'  Man, 

Ef  Adam  'd  on'y  bit  a  sweetin'  ? 

Oh,  Jon 'than,  ef  you  want  to  be 

A  rugged  chap  agin  an'  hearty, 
Go  fer  wutever  11  hurt  Jeff  D., 

Nut  wut  '11  boost  up  ary  party. 
Here  's  hell  broke  loose,  an'  we  lay  flat 

With  half  the  univarse  a-singein',  30 

Till  Sen'tor  This  an'  Gov'nor  Thet 

Stop  squabblin'  fer  the  garding-ingin. 

It 's  war  we  're  in,  not  politics ; 

It  's  systems  wrastlin'  now,  not  parties; 
An'  victory  in  the  eend  '11  fix 

Where  longest  will  an'  truest  heart  is. 
An'  wut 's  the  Guv'ment  folks  about  ? 

Tryin'  to  hope  ther'  's  nothin'  doin', 
An'  look  ez  though  they  did  n't  doubt 

Sunthin'  pertickler  wuz  a-brewin'.          4o 

Ther'  's  critters  yit  thet  talk  an'  act 

Fer  wut  they  call  Conciliation; 
They  'd  hand  a  buff 'lo-drove  a  tract 

When   they  wuz  madder   than   all   Ba- 

shan. 
Conciliate  ?  it  jest  means  be  kicked, 

No  metter  how  they  phrase  an'  tone  it; 
It  means  thet  we  're  to  set  down  licked, 

Thet  we  're  poor  shotes  an'  glad  to  own 
it! 

A  war  on  tick  's  ez  dear  'z  the  deuce, 

But  it  wun't  leave  no  lastin'  traces,       50 
Ez  't  would  to  make  a  sneakin'  truce 

Without  no  moral  specie-basis: 
Ef  greenbacks  ain't  nut  jest  the  cheese, 

I  guess  ther'  's  evils  thet  's  extremer,  — 
Fer  instance,  —  shinplaster  idees 

Like  them  put  out  by  Gov'nor  Seymour.1 

<  Horatio  Seymour  (1810-1886),  of  Utica,  New  York, 
was  one  of  the  most  prominent  and  respected  men  in 


Last  year,  the  Nation,  at  a  word, 

When  tremblin'  Freedom  cried  to  shield, 

her, 
Flamed  weldin'  into  one  keen  sword 

Waitin'  an'  longin'  fer  a  wielder:  60 

A  splendid  flash  !  —  but  how  'd  the  grasp 

With  sech  a  chance  ez  thet  wuz  tally  ? 
Ther'  warn't  no  meanin'  in  our  clasp,  — 

Half  this,  half  thet,  all  shilly-shally. 

More  men  ?  More  Man  !   It 's  there  we  fail; 

Weak  plans  grow  weaker  yit  by  length- 

enin': 
Wut  use  in  addin'  to  the  tail, 

When  it 's  the  head 's  in  need  o'  strength- 

euin'  ? 
We  wanted  one  thet  felt  all  Chief 

From  roots  o'  hair  to  sole  o'  stockin',    yo 
Square-sot  with  thousan'-ton  belief 

In  him  an'  us,  ef  earth  went  rockin' ! 

Ole  Hick'ry  would  n't  ha'  stood  see-saw 

'Bout   doin'  things    till  they   wuz   done 

with,  — 
He  'd  smashed  the  tables  o'  the  Law 

In  time  o'  need  to  load  his  gun  with; 
He  could  n't  see  but  jest  one  side,  — 

Ef  his,  't  wuz  God's,  an'  thet  wuz  plenty; 
An'  so  his  '  Forrards  !  '  multiplied 

An  army's  fightin'  weight  by  twenty,    go 

But  this  'ere  histin',  creak,  creak,  creak, 

Your  cappen's  heart  up  with  a  derrick, 
This  tryin'  to  coax  a  lightnin'-streak 

Out  of  a  half-discouraged  hay-rick, 
This  hangin'  on  mont'  arter  mont' 

Fer    one    sharp    purpose    'mongst    the 

twitter,  — 
I  tell  ye,  it  doos  kind  o'  stunt 

The  peth  and  sperit  of  a  critter. 

In  six  months  where  '11  the  People  be, 
Ef  leaders  look  on  revolution  go 

Ez  though  it  wuz  a  cup  o'  tea,  — »• 
Jest  social  el'ments  in  solution  ? 

This  weighin'  things  doos  wal  enough 
When   war    cools    down,   an'  comes   to 
writin' ; 

the  Democratic  party,  and  a  bitter  opponent  of  Lincoln. 
He  had  at  this  time  been  recently  elected  governor  of 
New  Y-ork  on  a  platform  that  denounced  almost  every 
measure  the  government  had  found  it  necessary  to 
adopt  for  the  suppression  of  the  Rebellion.  His  influ- 
ence contributed  not  a  little  to  the  encouragement  of 
that  spirit  which  inspired  the  Draft  Riot  in  the  city  of 
New  York  in  July,  1863.  (F.  B.  Williams,  in  Riverside 
and  Cambridge  Editions.) 


486 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


But  while  it 's  makin',  the  true  stuff 
.     Is  pison-mad,  pig-headed  fightin'. 

Democ'acy  gives  every  man 

The  right  to  be  his  own  oppressor  ; 
Bnt  a  loose  Gov'ment  ain't  the  plan, 

Helpless  ez  spilled  beans  on  a  dresser:  100 
I  tell  ye  one  thing  we  might  lara 

From  them  smart   critters,    the    Seced- 

ers,— 
Ef  bein'  right 's  the  fust  consarn, 

The  'fore-the-fust  's  cast-iron  leaders. 

But  'pears  to  me  I  see  some  signs 

Thet  we  're  a-goin'  to  use  our  senses: 
Jeff  druv  us  into  these  hard  lines, 

An'  ough'  to  bear  his  half  th'  expenses; 
Slavery  's  Secession's  heart  an'  will, 

South,  North,  East,  West,  where'er  you 
find  it,  no 

AJI'  ef  it  drors  into  War's  mill, 

D'  ye   say   them   thunder-stones   sha'n't 
grind  it  ? 

D' ye  s'pose,  ef  Jeff  giv  him  a  lick, 

Ole  Hick'ry  'd  tried  his  head  to  sof 'n 
So  's 't  would  n't  hurt  thet  ebony  stick 

Thet's    made    our    side    see    stars    so 

of'n? 
•  No  ! '  he  'd  ha'  thundered, '  on  your  knees, 

An'  own  one  flag,  one  road  to  glory  ! 
ooft-heartedness,  in  times  like  these, 

Shows  sof 'ness  in  the  upper  story  ! '      120 

An'  why  should  we  kick  up  a  muss 

About  the  Pres'dunt's  proclamation  ? l 
It  ain't  a-goin'  to  lib'rate  us, 

Ef  we  don't  like  emancipation: 
The  right  to  be  a  cussed  fool 

Is  safe  from  all  devices  human, 
It 's  common  (ez  a  gin'l  rule) 

To  every  critter  born  o'  woman. 

So  we  're  all  right,  an'  I,  fer  one, 

Don't  think  our  cause  '11  lose  in  vally    130 
By  rammin'  Scriptur  in  our  gun, 

An'  gittin'  Natur'  fer  an  ally: 
Thank  God,  say  I,  fer  even  a  plan 

To  lift  one  human  bein's  level, 
Give  one  more  chance  to  make  a  man, 

Or,  anyhow,  to  spile  a  devil  ! 

Not  thet  I  'm  one  thet  much  expec' 
Millennium  by  express  to-morrer; 

>  The  Emancipation  Proclamation. 


They  will  miscarry,  —  I  rec'lec' 

Tu  many  on  'em,  to  my  sorrer:  140 

Men  ain't  made  angels  in  a  day, 

No    matter  how  you   mould  an'   labor 

'em, 
Nor  'riginal  ones,  I  guess,  don't  stay 

With  Abe  so  of'n  ez  with  Abraham. 

The'ry  thinks  Fact  a  pooty  thing, 

An'  wants  the  banns  read  right  ensuin' ; 
But  fact  wun't  noways  wear  the  ring, 

'Thout  years  o'  settin'  up  an'  wooin': 
Though,  arter  all,  Time's  dial-plate 

Marks  cent'ries  with  the  minute-finger, 
An'  Good  can't  never  come  tu  late,  151 

Though  it  doos  seem  to  try  an'  linger. 

An'  come  wut  will,  I  think  it 's  grand 

Abe  's  gut  his  will  et  last  bloom-fur- 

naced 
In  trial-flames  till  it  11  stand 

The  strain  o'  bein'  in  deadly  earnest: 
Thet 's  wut  we  want,  —  we  want  to  know 

The  folks  on  our  side  hez  the  bravery 
To  b'lieve  ez  hard,  come  weal,  come  woe, 

In  Freedom  ez  Jeff  doos  in  Slavery.     160 

Set  the  two  forces  foot  to  foot, 

An'  every  man  knows  who  '11  be  winner, 
Whose  faith  in  God  hez  ary  root 

Thet  goes  down  deeper  than  his  dinner: 
Then  't  will  be  felt  from  pole  to  pole, 

Without  no  need  o'  proclamation, 
Earth's  biggest  Country 's  gut  her  soul 

An'  risen  up  Earth's  Greatest  Nation! 

February,  1863. 

No.X 

MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW  TO  THE 
EDITOR  OF  THE  ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY 

DEAR  SIR,  —  Your  letter  come  to  han' 

Requestin'  me  to  please  be  funny; 
But  I  ain't  made  upon  a  plan 

Thet  knows  wut 's  comin',  gall  or  honey. 
Ther'  's  times  the  world  doos  look  so  queer 

Odd  fancies  come  afore  1  call  'em; 
An'  then  agin,  for  half  a  year, 

No  preacher  'thout  a  call  's  more  solemt 

You  're  'n  want  o'  sunthin'  light  an'  cute, 
Rattlin'  an'  shrewd    an'    kin'  o'  jingle 
ish,  10 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


487 


An'  wish,  pervidin'  it  'ould  suit, 
I  'd  take  an'  citify  my  English. 

I  ken  write  long-tailed,  ef  I  please,  — 
But  when  I  'm  jokin',  no,  1  thankee; 

Then,  'fore  I  know  it,  my  idees 
Run  helter-skelter  into  Yankee. 

Sence  I  begun  to  scribble  rhyme, 

I  tell  ye  wut,  I  hain't  ben  foolin'; 
The  parson's  books,  life,  death,  an'  time 

Hev  took  some  trouble  with  my  school- 
in';  20 
Nor  th'  airth  don't  git  put  out  with  me, 

Thet  love  her    'z  though   she    wuz    a 

woman; 
iVhy,  th'  ain't  a  bird  upon  the  tree 

But  half  forgives  my  bein'  human. 

An'  yit  I  love  th'  unhighschooled  way 

01'  farmers  hed  when  I  wuz  younger; 
Their  talk  wuz  meatier,  an'  'ould  stay, 

While  book-froth    seems   to  whet   your 

hunger; 
For  puttin'  in  a  downright  lick 

'twixt  Humbug's  eyes,  ther'  's  few  can 
metch  it,  30 

An'  then  it  helves  my  thoughts  ez  slick 

Ez  stret-grained  hickory  doos  a  hetchet. 

But  when  I  can't,  I  can't,  thet  's  all, 

For  Natur'  won't  put  up  with  gullin'; 
Idees  you  hev  to  shove  an'  haul 

Like  a  druv  pig  ain't  wuth  a  mullein: 
Live    thoughts    ain't   sent    for;    thru    all 
rifts 

O'  sense  they  pour  an'  resh  ye  onwards, 
Like  rivers  when  south-lyin'  drifts 

Feel  thet  th'  old  airth  's  a-wheelin'  sun- 
wards. 4o 

Time  wuz,  the  rhymes  come  crowdin'  thick 

Ez  office-seekers  arter  'lection, 
An'  into  ary  place  'ould  stick 

Without  no  bother  nor  objection; 
But    sence    the    war    my   thoughts    hang 
back 

Ez  though  I  wanted  to  enlist  'em, 
An'  subs'tutes,  —  they  don't  never  lack, 

But  then  they  '11    slope    afore  you  've 
mist  'em. 

Nothin'  don't  seem  like  wut  it  wuz; 

I  can't  see  wut  there  is  to  bender,          50 
An'  yit  my  brains  jes'  go  buzz,  buzz, 

Like  bumblebees  agin  a  winder; 


'fore  these  times  come,  in  all  airth's  row, 
Ther'  wuz  one  quiet  place,  my  head  in, 

Where  I  could  hide  an'  think,  —  but  now 
It 's  all  one  teeter,  hopin',  dreadin'. 

Where  's  Peace  ?   I  start,  some  clear-blown 

night, 
When  gaunt  stone  walls  grow  numb  an' 

number, 
An',  creakin'  'cross  the  snow-crus'  white, 

Walk  the  col'  starlight  into  summer;     60 
Up  grows  the  moon,  an'  swell  by  swell 
Thru  the  pale  pasturs  silvers  dimmer 
Than  the  last  smile  thet  strives  to  tell 
O'  love  gone   heavenward  in   its  shim- 
mer. 

I  hev  been  gladder  o'  sech  things 

Than  cocks  o'  spring  or  bees  o'  clover, 
They  filled  my  heart  with  livin'  springs, 

But  now  they  seem  to  freeze  'em  over; 
Sights  innercent  ez  babes  on  knee, 

Peaceful  ez  eyes  o'  pastur'd  cattle,         70 
Jes'  coz  they  be  so,  seem  to  me 

To  rile  me  more  with  thoughts  o'  battle. 

Indoors  an'  out  by  spells  I  try; 

Ma'am    Natur'    keeps    her     spin-wheel 

goin', 
But  leaves  my  natur'  stiff  and  dry 

Ez  fiel's  o'  clover  arter  mowin' ; 
An'  her  jes'  keepin'  on  the  same, 

Calmer  'n  a  clock,  an'  never  carin', 
An'  findin'  nary  thing  to  blame, 

Is  wus  than  ef  she  took  to  swearin'.      80 

Snow-flakes  come  whisperin'  on  the  pane 

The    charm    makes  blazin'  logs  so  plea- 
sant, 
But  I  can't  hark  to  wut  they  're  say'n', 

With  Grant  or  Sherman  oilers  present; 
The  chimbleys  shudder  in  the  gale, 

Thet  lulls,  then  suddin  takes  to  flappin' 
Like  a  shot  hawk,  but  all 's  ez  stale 

To  me  ez  so  much  sperit-rappin'. 

Under  the  yaller-pines  I  house, 

When   sunshine   makes    'em   all   sweet- 
scented,  90 
An'  hear  among  their  furry  boughs 

The  baskin'  west-wind  purr  contented, 
While  'way  o'erhead,  ez  sweet  an'  low 

Ez  distant  bells  thet  ring  for  meetin', 
The  wedged  wil'  geese  their  bugles  blow, 

Further  an'  further  South  retreatin'. 


488 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Or  up  the  slippery  knob  I  strain 

An'  see  a  hundred  hills  like  islan's 
Lift  their  blue  woods  in  broken  chain 

Out  o'  the  sea  o'  snowy  silence;  100 

The  farm-smokes,  sweetes'  sight  on  airth, 

Slow  thru  the  winter  air  a-shrinkiu' 
Seem  kin'  o'  sad,  an'  roun'  the  hearth 

Of  empty  places  set  me  thinkin'. 

Beaver  roars  hoarse  with  meltin'  snows, 

An'  rattles  di'mon's  from  his  granite; 
Time  wuz,  he  snatched  away  my  prose, 

An'  into  psalms  or  satires  ran  it; 
But  he,  nor  all  the  rest  thet  once 

Started  my  blood  to  country-dances,    no 
Can't  set  me  goin'  more  'n  a  dunce 

Thet  hain't  no  use  for  dreams  an'  fan- 


Rat-tat-tat-tattle  thru  the  street 

I  hear  the  drummers  makin'  riot, 
An'  I  set  thinkin'  o'  the  feet 

Thet  follered  once  an'  now  are  quiet,  — 
White  feet  ez  snowdrops  innercent, 

Thet  never  knowed  the  paths  o'  Satan, 
Whose  comin'  step  ther'  's  ears  thet  won't, 

No,  not  lifelong,  leave  off  awaitin'.       120 

Why,  hain't  I  held  'em  on  my  knee  ?  1 

Did  n't  I  love  to  see  'em  growin', 
Three  likely  lads  ez  wal  could  be, 

Hahnsome  an'  brave  an'  not  tu  knowin'  ? 
I  set  an'  look  into  the  blaze 

Whose    natur',   jes'    like   theirn,   keeps 

climbin', 
Ez  long  'z  it  lives,  in  shinin'  ways, 

An'  half  despise  myself  for  rhymin'. 


1  Of  Lowell's  three  nephews  one,  William  Lowell 
Putnam,  was  killed,  and  another,  James  Jackson 
Lowell,  seriously  wounded,  at  the  battle  of  Ball's  Bluff, 
the  same  battle  in  which  Holmes's  son  was  wounded 
(see  '  My  Hunt  After  the  Captain  ')  ;  the  third,  Charles 
Russell  Lowell,  died  October  20,  1864.  of  wounds  re- 
ceived the  previous  day  at  the  battle  of  Cedar  Creek. 
James  Jackson  Lowell  recovered  from  the  wounds 
received  at  Ball's  Bluff,  but  was  killed  in  the  battle 
of  Seven  Pines.  See  Lowell's  Letters,  vol.  i,  pp.  162- 
166  ;  and  Scudder's  Life  of  Lowell,  vol.  ii,  pp.  29-31. 

See  also  the  note  on  Emerson's  '  Sacrifice,'  p.  95,  note 
1  ;  and  Colonel  Henry  Lee  Higginson's  Four  Addresses, 
there  referred  to.  Emerson  wrote  to  Carlyle,  October 
15,  1870  :  '  The  Lowell  race,  again,  in  our  War  yielded 
three  or  four  martyrs  so  able  and  tender  and  true,  that 
James  Russell  Lowell  cannot  allude  to  them  in  verse  or 
prose  but  the  public  is  melted  anew.'  (Cm  •////<•-  l-'.mi-rxnn 
Correspondence,  vol.  ii,  p.  374.)  See  also  Lowell's 
'  Commemoration  Ode,'  p.  490,  and  '  Under  the  Old 
Elm,'  p.  512,  with  the  passages  from  his  letters  there 
quoted. 


Wut  's   words   to   them   whose   faith   an' 
truth 

On  War's  red  techstone  rang  true  metal, 
Who  ventered  life  an'  love  an'  youth       131 

For  the  gret  prize  o'  death  in  battle  ? 
To  him  who,  deadly  hurt,  agen 

Flashed  on  afore  the  charge's  thunder,2 
Tippin'  with  fire  the  bolt  of  men 

Thet  rived  the  Rebel  line  asunder  ? 

'T  ain't  right  to  hev  the  young  go  fust, 

All  throbbin'  full  o'  gifts  an'  graces, 
Leavin'  life's  paupers  dry  ez  dust 

To  try  an'  make  b'lieve  fill  their  places: 
Nothin'  but  tells  us  wut  we  miss,  j4i 

Ther'  's  gaps  our  lives  can't  never  fay 

in, 
An'  thet  world  seems  so  fur  from  this 

Lef  for  us  loafers  to  grow  gray  in  ! 

My  eyes  cloud  up  for  rain;  my  mouth 

Will   take   to   twitchin'   roun'   the   cor- 
ners; 
I  pity  mothers,  tu,  down  South, 

For  all  they  sot  among  the  scorners: 
I  'd  sooner  take  my  chance  to  stan' 

At  Jedgment  where  your  meanest  slave 
is,  150 

Than  at  God's  bar  hoi'  up  a  ban' 

Ez  drippin'  red  ez  yourn,  Jeff  Davis  ! 

Come,  Peace  !  not  like  a  mourner  bowed 

For  honor  lost  an'  dear  ones  wasted, 
But  proud,  to  meet  a  people  proud, 

With  eyes  thet  tell  o'  triumph  tasted  ! 
Come,  with  ban'  grippin'  on  the  hilt, 

An'  step  thet  proves  ye  Victory's  daugh- 
ter ! 
Longin'  for  you,  our  sperits  wilt 

Like   shipwrecked   men's   on    raf's    for 
water.  160 

Come,  while  our  country  feels  the  lift 

Of  a  gret  instinct  shoutin'  '  Forwards  ! ' 
An'  knows  thet  freedom  ain't  a  gift 

Thet  tarries  long  in  ban's  o'  cowards  ! 
Come,  sech  ez  mothers  prayed  for,  when 

They  kissed   their   cross  with   lips  thet 

quivered, 
An'  bring  fair  wages  for  brave  men, 

A  nation  saved,  a  race  delivered  ! 

April,  1865. 

2  General  Charles  Russell  Lowell,  at  the  battle  of 
Cedar  Creek. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


489 


ON    BOARD   THE   '76 l 

WRITTEN      FOR     MR.     BRYANT'S     SEVEN- 
TIETH   BIRTHDAY 

NOVEMBER    3,    1864 

OUR  ship  lay  tumbling  in  an  angry  sea, 
Her  rudder  gone,  her  mainmast  o'er  the 

side; 

Her  scuppers,  from  the  waves'  clutch  stag- 
gering free, 
Trailed    threads    of    priceless    crimson 

through  the  tide; 
Sails,  shrouds,  and  spars  with  pirate  cannon 

torn, 
We  lay,  awaiting  morn. 

Awaiting   morn,  such  morn  as  mocks-  de- 
spair; 
And  she  that  bare  the   promise  of   the 

world 
Within  her  sides,  now  hopeless,  helmless, 

bare, 
At   random   o'er   the   wildering   waters 

hurled; 

The  reek  of  battle  drifting  slow  alee 
Not  sullener  than  we. 

Morn  came  at  last  to  peer  into  our  woe, 
When  lo,  a  sail !     Now  surely  help  was 

nigh; 
The  red  cross  flames  aloft,  Christ's  pledge; 

biit  no, 
Her  black  guns  grinning  hate,  she  rushes 

by 
And  hails  us:  —  'Gains  the  leak  !   Ay,  so 

we  thought  ! 
Sink,  then,  with  curses  fraught ! ' 

I  leaned  against  my  gun  still  angry-hot, 
And  my  lids  tingled  with  the  tears  held 
back:  20 

This   scorn   methought   was  crueller  than 

shot: 

The  manly  death-grip  in  the  battle-wrack, 
Yard-arm  to  yard-arm,  were  more  friendly 

far 
Than  such  fear-smothered  war. 

There  our  foe  wallowed,  like  a  wounded 

brute 

The   fiercer   for   his    hurt.     Wliat   now 
were  best  ? 

1  See  the  third  quotation  from   LmctlVs  Letters,  in 
note  on  p.  444. 


Once  more  tug  bravely  at  the  peril's  root, 

dthit?     Or  evade 
the  test 


Though  death  came  wit 


If  right  or  wrong  in  this  God's  world  of  ours 
Be  leagued  with  mightier  powers  ?    30 

Some,  faintly  loyal,  felt  their  pulses  lag 
With   the    slow   beat   that    doubts   and 

then  despairs; 
Some,  caitiff,  would  have  struck  the  starry 

flag 
That  knits  us  with  our  past,  and  makes 

us  heirs 

Of  deeds  high-hearted  as  were  ever  done 
'Neath  the  all-seeing  sun. 

But  there  was  one,  the  Singer  of  our  crew, 
Upon  whose  head  Age  waved  his  peace- 

ful sign, 
But  whose  red  heart's-blood  no  surrender 

knew; 

And  couchant    under   brows  of   massive 
line,  40 

The  eyes,  like  guns  beneath  a  parapet, 

Watched,  charged  with  lightnings  yet. 

The  voices  of  the  hills  did  his  obey; 

The  torrents  flashed  and  tumbled  in  his 


ng; 
ht 


He  brought    our   native  fields    from    far 

away, 

Or  set  us  'mid  the  innumerable  throng 
Of  dateless  woods,  or  where  we  heard  the 

calm 
Old  homestead's  evening  psalm. 

But  now  he  sang  of  faith  to  things  unseen, 

Of  freedom's  birthright  given  to  us  in 

trust;  5o 

And  words  of  doughty  cheer  he  spoke  be- 

tween, 
That  made  all  earthly  fortune  seem  as 

dust, 
Matched  with  that  duty,  old  as  Time  and 

new, 
Of  being  brave  and  true. 

We,   listening,  learned    what    makes    the 

might  of  words,  — 
Manhood  to    back  them,  constant  as  a 

star; 
His  voice  rammed  home  our  cannon,  edged 

our  swords, 

And  sent  our  boarders  shouting;  shroud 
and  spar 


490 


CHIEF  AMERICAN  POETS 


Heard  him  and   stiffened;  the  sails  heard, 

and  wooed 
The  winds  with  loftier  mood.  60 

In  our  dark  hours   he   manned  our   guns 

again; 

Remanned  ourselves  from  his  own  man- 
hood's stores; 
Pride,   honor,  country,  throbbed    through 

all  his  strain; 
And  shall  we  praise  ?   God's  praise  was 

his  before; 
And  on  our  futile  laurels  he  looks  down, 

Himself  our  bravest  crown. 
1864.  1865. 


ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  HAR- 
VARD COMMEMORATION1 

JULY    21,    1865 

I 

WEAK-WINGED  is  song, 
Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 
Whither  the  brave  deed  climbs  for  light: 

We  seem  to  do  them  wrong, 

1  The  Commemoration  services  (July  21,  1865)  took 
place  in  the  open  air,  in  the  presence  of  a  great  assem- 
bly. Prominent  among  the  speakers  were  Major-Gen- 
eral Meade,  the  hero  of  Gettysburg,  and  Major-General 
Devens.  The  wounds  of  the  war  were  still  fresh  and 
bleeding,  and  the  interest  of  the  occasion  was  deep  and 
thrilling.  The  summer  afternoon  was  drawing  to  its 
close  when  the  poet  began  the  recital  of  the  ode.  No 
living  audience  could  for  the  first  time  follow  with  in- 
telligent appreciation  the  delivery  of  such  a  poem.  To 
be  sure,  it  had  its  obvious  strong  points  and  its  sono- 
rous charms;  but,  like  all  the  later  poems  of  the  author, 
it  is  full  of  condensed  thought  and  requires  study.  The 
reader  to-day  finds  many  passages  whose  force  and 
beauty  escaped  him  during  the  recital,  yet  the  effect  of 
the  poem  at  the  time  was  overpowering.  The  face  of 
the  poet,  always  singularly  expressive,  was  on  this  oc- 
casion almost  transfigured,  —  glowing,  as  if  with  an 
inward  light.  It  was  impossible  to  look  away  from  it. 
Our  age  has  furnished  many  great  historic  scenes,  but 
this  Commemoration  combined  the  elements  of  gran- 
deur and  pathos,  and  produced  an  impression  as  lasting 
as  life.  (Underwood's  James  Russell  Lowell,  quoted 
in  the  Riverside  Literature  Series.) 

The  passage  about  Lincoln  was  not  in  the  Ode  as 
originally  recited,  but  added  immediately  after.  More 
than  eighteen  months  before,  however,  I  had  written 
about  Lincoln  in  the  AortA  American  Review, — an 
article  which  pleased  him.  I  did  divine  him  earlier 
than  mobt  men  of  the  Brahmin  caste.  The  Ode  itself 
was  an  improvisation.  Two  days  before  the  Com- 
memoration I  had  told  my  friend  Child  that  it  was  im- 
possible, —  that  I  was  dull  as  a  door-mat.  But  the 
next  day  something  gave  me  a  jog  and  the  whole  thing 
came  out  of  me  with  a  rush.  I  sat  up  all  night  writing 
it  out  clear,  and  took  it  on  the  morning  of  the  day 
to  Child.  'I  have  something,  but  don't  yet  know 
what  it  is,  or  whether  it  will  do.  Look  at  it  and  tell 


Bringing   our    robin's-leaf   to   deck    their 

hearse 
Who  in  warm  life-blood  wrote  their  nobler 

verse, 
Our    trivial    song    to    honor    those    who 

come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump  and 

drum, 

And  shaped  in  squadron-strophes  their  de- 
sire, 
Live  battle-odes  whose  lines  were  steel  and 

fire:  10 

Yet   sometimes   feathered   words  are 

strong, 

A  gracious  memory  to  buoy  up  and  save 
From  Lethe's  dreamless  ooze,  the  common 

grave 
Of  the  unventurous  throng. 

me.'  He  went  a  little  way  apart  with  it  under  an  elm- 
tree  in  the  college  yard.  He  read  a  passage  here  and 
there,  brought  it  back  to  me,  and  said,  '  Do?  I  should 
think  so  !  Don't  you  be  scared.'  And  I  was  n't,  but 
virtue  enough  had  gone  out  of  me  to  make  me  weak 
for  a  fortnight  after.  (LOWELL,  in  a  letter  to  Richard 
Watson  Gilder,  January  16,  1886.  Letters,  Harper  and 
Brothers,  vol.  ii,  pp.  305-306.) 

I  don't  know  how  to  answer  your  queries  about  my 
1  Ode.'  I  guess  I  am  right,  for  it  was  a  matter  of  pure 
instinct  —  except  the  strophe  you  quote,  which  I  added 
for  balance  both  of  measure  and  thought.  I  am  not 
sure  if  I  understand  what  you  say  about  the  tenth 
strophe.  You  will  observe  that  it  leads  naturally  to 
the  eleventh,  and  that  I  there  justify  a  certain  narrow- 
ness in  it  as  an  expression  of  the  popular  feeling  as 
well  as  my  own.  I  confess  I  have  never  got  over  the 
feeling  of  wrath  with  which  (just  after  the  death  of  my 
nephew  Willie)  I  read  in  an  English  paper  that  nothing 
was  to  be  hoped  of  an  army  officered  by  tailors'  ap- 
prentices and  butcher-boys.  The  poem  was  written 
with  a  vehement  speed,  which  I  thought  I  had  lost  in 
the  skirts  of  my  professor's  gown.  Till  within  two 
days  of  the  celebration  I  was  hopelessly  dumb,  and  then 
it  all  came  with  a  rush,  literally  making  me  lean  (mi' 
fgce  magro)  and  so  nervous  that  I  was  weeks  in  getting 
over  it.  I  was  longer  in  getting  the  new  (eleventh) 
strophe  to  my  mind  than  in  writing  the  rest  of  the 
poem.  In  thai  I  hardly  changed  a  word,  and  it  was  so 
undeliberate  that  I  did  not  find  out  till  after  it  was 
printed  that  some  of  the  verses  lacked  corresponding 
rhymes.  All  the  '  War  Poems '  were  improvisations  as  it 
were.  My  blood  was  up,  and  you  would  hardly  believe 
me  if  I  were  to  tell  how  few  hours  intervened  between 
conception  and  completion,  even  in  so  long  a  one  as 
'Mason  and  Slidell.'  So  I  have  a  kind  of  faith  that 
the  '  Ode  '  is  right  because  it  was  there,  I  hardly  knew 
how.  I  doubt  you  are  right  in  wishing  it  more  histori- 
cal. But  then  I  could  not  have  written  it.  I  had  put 
the  ethical  and  political  view  so  often  in  prose  that  I 
was  weary  of  !*,.  The  motives  of  the  war  ?  I  had  im- 
patiently argued  them  again  and  again  —  but  for  an  ode 
they  must  be  in  the  blood  and  not  the  memory.  (LOW- 
ELL, in  a  letter  of  December  8,  1868.  Letters,  Harper 
and  Brothers,  vol.  ii,  pp.  9-10.)  See  also  Lowell's  let- 
ter to  Miss  Norton,  July  25,  18C5;  and  Scudder's  Life 
of  Lowell,  vol.  ii,  pp.  1-73,  especially  63-73. 

For  a  noble  description  of  the  Commemoration  pro- 
cession and  the  exercises,  see  W.  G.  Brown's  The  Foe 
of  Compromise  and  other  Essays,  pp.  197-199 ;  quoted 
in  Greenslet's  Lowell,  pp.  161-163. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


491 


ii 
To-day  our    Reverend  Mother   welcomes 

back 

Her   wisest  Scholars,  those  who  under- 
stood 

The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome, 
And  offered  their  fresh  lives  to  make  it 
good: 

No  lore  of  Greece  or  Rome. 
No   science   peddling  with   the    names  of 
things,  20 

Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far   from   Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the 
many  waits, 

And  lengthen  out  our  dates 
With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory  sings 
In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves  them 

and  dilates: 

Nor  such  thy  teaching,  Mother  of  us  all ! 
Not  such  the  trumpet-call 
Of  thy  diviner  mood, 
That  could  thy  sons  entice  3o 

From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruitful 

nest 

Of  those  half-virtues  which  the  world  calls 
best, 

Into  War's  tumult  rude ; 
But  rather  far  that  stern  device 
The  sponsors  chose  that  round  thy  cradle 

stood 

In  the  dim,  unventured  wood, 
The  VERITAS  that  lurks  beneath  1 
The  letter's  unprolific  sheath, 
Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth  living, 
Seed-grain  of  high  emprise,  immortal  food, 
One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth  hath 
the  giving.  41 

III 
Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best 

oil 

Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her, 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 
With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  be- 
hind her. 

Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her, 
Many  with  crossed   hands  sighed  for 

her; 

But  these,  our  brothers,  fought  for  her, 
At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 
So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her,  50 

i  VBRITAS,  the  motto  on  the  seal  of  Harvard  Univer- 
sity, inscribed  upon  three  open  books.  See  Holmea's 
poem  '  Veritas,'  p.  396. 


Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness 
Of  her  divine  completeness : 
Their  higher  instinct  knew 
Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves  are 

true, 
And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of,  dare  to 

do; 

They  followed  her  and  found  her 
Where  all  may  hope  to  find, 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But    beautiful,    with    danger's    sweetness 

round  her. 

Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed  60 
Breathes  its  awakening  breath 
Into  the  lifeless  creed, 
They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 
With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  look  proud  on  them 
in  death. 


Our   slender    life   runs    rippling   by,   and 

glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past; 

What  is  there  that  abides 
To   make  the   next   age  better   for  the 

•last  ? 

Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us  -a 

Something  to  live  for  here  that  shall  out- 
live us  ? 

Some  more  substantial  boon 
Than  such  as  flows  and  ebbs  with  Fortune's 

fickle  moon  ? 
The  little  that  we  see 
From  doubt  is  never  free; 
The  little  that  we  do 
Is  but  half-nobly  true; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 
What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods  cal 

dross, 

Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving,   80 
Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 
A  long  account  of  nothings  paid  with  loss, 
Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked  by  unseen 

wires, 

After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave, 
With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and  de- 
sires, 

Loves,  hates,  ambitions,  and  immortal  fires, 
Are    tossed   pell-mell    together   in    the 

grave. 

But  stay  !  no  age  was  e'er  degenerate, 
Unless  men  held  it  at  too  cheap  a  rate, 
For   in  our  likeness  still  we  shape   our 
fate.  M 


492 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Ah,  there  is  something  here 
TJnfathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer, 
Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 
A  high  immunity  from  Night, 
Something  that  leaps  life's  narrow  bars 
To  claim  its  birthright  with  the  hosts  of 

heaven; 

A  seed  of  sunshine  that  can  leaven 
Our  earthly  dullness  with  the  beams  of 
stars, 

And  glorify  our  clay 
With  light  from  fountains  elder  than  the 
Day;  100 

A  conscience  more  divine  than  we, 
A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 
A  vexing,  forward-reaching  sense 
Of  some  more  noble  permanence; 

A  light  across  the  sea, 
Which  haunts  the  soul  and  will  not  let  it 

be, 

Still  beaconing  from  the  heights  of  unde- 
generate  years. 


Whither  leads  the  path 
To  ampler  fates  that  leads  ? 
Not  down  through  flowery  meads, 
To  reap  an  aftermath  m 

Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds, 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 
Where  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By    battle's    flashes    gropes    a    desperate 

way, 
And  every  turf  the   fierce  foot  clings  to 

bleeds. 

Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 
Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,   and  the 
sword  120 

Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath; 
But   some   day  the   live   coal   behind  the 

thought, 

Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene, 
Or  from  the  shrine  serene 
Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame ;  the  war  of  tongue  and 

pen 
Learns   with   what  deadly  purpose  it  was 

fraught, 

And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught, 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock  of 

men: 

Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed  130 
Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset,  pursued, 


And  cries  reproachful:  '  Was  it,  then,  my 

praise, 
And  not  myself  was   loved  ?   Prove  now 

thy  truth; 

I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth; 
Give  me  thy  life,  or  cower  in  empty  phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate  !  ' 
Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  bountiful  is  Fate;  140 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 
When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 
This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stands  self-poised  on  manhood's 

solid  earth, 

Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength   he 
needs. 


Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief,  150 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 
Forgive   me,   if    from    present    things    I 

turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and 

burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored 

urn. 

Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote:  160 

For  him  her  Old- World  moulds  aside  she 

threw, 
And  choosing   sweet    clay   from    the 

breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and 

true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to 

lead; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to 

be, 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth,       170 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


493 


They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again 

and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of 

mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy 

bars, 

A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors 
blind;  180 

Broad    prairie    rather,   genial,   level- 
lined, 
Fruitful   and   friendly  for  all  human 

kind, 

Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  lofti- 
est stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 
And  thwart  her  genial  will ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us 
face  to  face.  190 

I  praise  him  not;  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he: 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide.          200 
Great    captains,   with    their    guns    and 

drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a 

tower, 

Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame. 
The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing 

man, 
Sagacious,   patient,    dreading    praise,   not 

blame, 

New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  Amer- 
ican. 


Long  as  man's  hope  insatiate  can  discern 

Or   only   guess   some  more   inspiring 

goal  210 

Outside  of  Self,  enduring  as  the  pole, 


Along  whose  course  the  flying  axles  burn 
Of  spirits  bravely-pitched,  earth's  man- 
lier brood; 

Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 
The  meed  that  stills  the  inexorable  mind; 
So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 
Under  whatever  mortal  names  it  masks, 
Freedom,  Law,   Country,    this    ethereal 

mood 
That  thanks  the   Fates   for  their   severer 

tasks, 

Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap,        220 

While  others  skulk  in  subterfuges  cheap, 

And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the  boon 

it  asks, 

Shall  win  man's  praise  and  woman's  love, 
Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 
All  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear, 
A  virtue  round  whose  .forehead  we  in- 

wreathe 

Laurels  that  with  a  living  passion  breathe 
When  other  crowns  grow,  while  we  twine 

them,  sear. 
What  brings  us  thronging  these  high  rites 

to  pay, 

And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our  year, 

Save  that  our  brothers  found  this  better 

way  ?  231 


We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows   with  Freedom's  honey  and 

milk; 

But 't  was  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our 

best;  — 
Ah  me  !  not  all!  some  come  not  with  the 

rest, 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any 

here  ! 

I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain; 
But  the  sad  strings  complain,    240 
And  will  not  please  the  ear: 
I  sweep  them  for  a  psean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away,  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking   of   dear  ones  whom   the   dumb 

turf  wraps, 

Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to  gain: 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving; 

I  with  uncovered  head  250 

Salute  the  sacred  dead, 


494 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Who  went,  and  who  return  not.  —  Say  not 
so! 

T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 

But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the 
way; 

Virtue  treads  paths  that  end   not  in   the 
grave; 

No  ban  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave ; 
And  to  the  saner  mind 

We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  be- 
hind. 

Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow! 

For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack : 

I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row,      261 

With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler  show ; 

We   find   in   our  dull   road   their    shining 
track; 

In  every  nobler  mood 

We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 

Part  of  our  life  's  unalterable  good, 

Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 

Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted 
ways, 

Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays    170 

Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expecta- 
tion ! 


But  is  there  hope  to  save 
Even    this    ethereal    essence  from   the 

grave? 
What    ever   'scaped    Oblivion's     subtle 

wrong 

Save  a  few  clarion  names,  or  golden  threads 
of  song  ? 

Before  my  musing  eye 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  sweep  by, 
Disvoiced  now  and  insubstantial  things, 
As  noisy  once  as  we ;  poor  ghosts  of  kings, 
Shadows  of  empire  wholly  gone  to  dust, 
And  many  races,  nameless  long  ago,    281 
To  darkness   driven   by  that  imperious 

gust 
Of    ever-rushing   Tune  that    here   doth 

blow: 

O  visionary  world,  condition  strange, 
Where  naught  abiding  is  but  only  Change, 
Where  the   deep-bolted   stars   themselves 

still  shift  and  range ! 

Shall  we  to  more  continuance  make  pre- 
tence ? 
Renown  builds  tombs;  a  life-estate  is  Wit; 

And,  bit  by  bit, 
The  cunning  years  steal  all  from  us  but  woe ; 


Leaves  are  we,  whose  decays  no  harvest 
sow.  291 

But,  when  we  vanish  hence, 
Shall  they  lie  forceless  in  the  dark  be- 
low, 
Save  to  make  green  their   little  length 

of  sods, 

Or  deepen  pansies  for  a  year  or  two, 
Who  now    to    us   are    shining-sweet  as 

gods? 

Was  dying  all  they  had  the  skill  to  do  ? 
That  were    not    fruitless:  but  the  Soul 

resents 
Such   short-lived    service,    as    if    blind 

events 

Ruled  without    her,  or    earth  could    so 
endure ;  30o 

She  claims  a  more  divine  investiture 
Of  longer  tenure  than  Fame's  airy  rents; 
Whate'er    she  touches  doth  her  nature 

share; 
Her  inspiration  haunts  the  ennobled  air, 

Gives  eyes  to  mountains  blind, 
Ears  to  the   deaf    earth,   voices  to  the 

wind, 

And  her  clear  trump  sings  succor  every- 
where 

By  lonely  bivouacs  to  the  wakeful  mind ; 
For  soul  inherits  all  that  soul  could  dare : 
Yea,  Manhood  hath  a  wider  span 
And  larger  privilege  of  life  than  man.  3 1 1 
The  single  deed,  the  private  sacrifice, 
So  radiant  now  through  proudly-hidden 

tears, 

Is  covered  up  erelong  from  mortal  eyes 
With  thoughtless  drift  of  the  deciduous 

years; 
But  that   high  privilege  that  makes  all 

men  peers, 
That  leap  of  heart  whereby  a  people  rise 

Up  to  a  noble  anger's  height, 
And,   flamed  on  by  the  Fates,  not  shrink, 

but  grow  more  bright, 
That  swift  validity  in  noble  veins,    320 
Of    choosing   danger  and    disdaining 
shame, 

Of  being  set  on  flame 
By  the  pure  fire  that  flies   all  contact 

base 
But  wraps  its  chosen  with  angelic  might, 

These  are  imperishable  gains, 
Sure  as  the  sun,  medicinal  as  light, 
These  hold  great  futures  in  their  lusty 

reins 
And  certify  to  earth  a  new  imperial  race. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


495 


Who  now  shall  sneer  ? 
Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace        330 
Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race  ? 

Roundhead  and  Cavalier  ! 
Dumb  are  those  names  erewhile  in  battle 

loud; 
Dream-footed  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear: 
That   is   best   blood   that   hath  most   iron 

in't, 

To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint 
For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 
Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,  and  Guelfs,  whose  thin  bloods 
crawl  34o 

Down  from  some  victor  in  a  border-brawl ! 

How  poor  their  outworn  coronets, 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic 

wreath 

Our  brave    for    honor's    blazon  shall    be- 
queath, 
Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation 

sets 

Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears 
With   vain   resentments  and  more  vain 
regrets  ! 

XI 

Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride, 
Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude    350 
Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 
But  with  far-heard  gratitude, 
Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed, 

To  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs  dead, 
The    strain  should  close  that   consecrates 
our  brave. 

Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head  ! 
Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 
Not  without  a  martial  ring, 
Not  without  a  prouder  tread 
And  a  peal  of  exultation:  36o 

Little  right  has  he  to  sing 
Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour 
Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 
Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation  ! 
'T  is  no  Man  we  celebrate, 
By  his  country's  victories  great, 

A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate, 
But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a  Nation 
Drawing  force  from  all  her  men, 
Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all,       370 
For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 
Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 


Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower, 
Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 
Touched  but  in  passing  by   her  mantle- 
hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  't  is 

her  dower  ! 

How  could  poet  ever  tower, 
If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears, 
If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  people  ?  380 
Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and 

waves  ! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking 

steeple  ! 
Banners,  adauce  with  triumph,  bend  your 

staves ! 

And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let  beacon-fire    to  answering   beacon 

speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface 

he, 

And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 
Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 
Across  a  kindling  continent, 
Making  earth  feel  more  firm  and  air  breathe 
braver:  39o 

'  Be  proud  !  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have 

helped  to  save  her  ! 
She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the 

poor, 

She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door, 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for   all 

mankind  ! 
The   fire  is  dreadful   in  her  eyes  no 

more; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she  doth 

unbind, 
Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to 

spin, 
And   bids  her  navies,  that   so  lately 

hurled 

Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their  thun- 
ders in,  i, 
Swimming  like  birds  of  calm  along  the 
unharmful  shore.  400 
No  challenge    sends  she  to  the  elder 

world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated;  a  light 

scorn 
Plays  o'er  her  mouth,  as  round  her 

mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits 

the  morn 

Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her  sub- 
ject seas.' 


496 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Bow  down,  dear  Land,  for  thou  hast  found 

release  ! 

Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 
Hath  taught   thee    the  sure   wisdom  of 

His  ways, 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought 

thy  peace  ! 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise  !      410 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the   juster  skies  a   man's   enfran- 
chised brow. 
O    Beautiful !     my    country !    ours    once 

more  ! 

Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 
And  letting  thy  set  lips, 
Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  com- 
pare ?  421 
What  were  our  lives  without  thee  ? 
What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee  ? 
We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee; 
We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare  ! 


THE  MINER 

DOWN  'mid  the  tangled  roots  of  things 
That  coil  about  the  central  fire, 

I  seek  for  that  which  giveth  wings 
To  stoop,  not  soar,  to  my  desire. 

Sometimes  I  hear,  as  't  were  a  sigh, 
The  sea's  deep  yearning  far  above, 

'  Thou  hast  the  secret  not,'  I  cry, 
'  In  deeper'deeps  is  hid  my  Love.' 

They  think  I  burrow  from  the  sun, 
In  darkness,  all  alone,  and  weak;       10 

Such  loss  were  gain  if  He  were  won, 
For  't  is  the  sun's  own  Sun  I  seek. 

'  The  earth,'  they  murmur,  '  is  the  tomb 
That  vainly  sought  his  life  to  prison; 

Why  grovel  longer  in  the  gloom  ? 
He  is  not  here;  he  hath  arisen.' 

More  life  for  me  where  he  hath  lain 
Hidden  while  ye  believed  him  dead, 


Than  in  cathedrals  cold  and  vain, 

Built  on  loose  sands  of  It  is  said.        20 

My  search  is  for  the  living  gold; 

Him  I  desire  who  dwells  recluse, 
And  not  his  image  worn  and  old, 

Day-servant  of  our  sordid  use. 

If  him  I  find  not,  yet  I  find 

The  ancient  joy  of  cell  and  church, 

The  glimpse,  the  surety  undefined, 
The  unquenched  ardor  of  the  search. 

Happier  to  chase  a  flying  goal 

Than  to  sit  counting  laurelled  gains, 

To  guess  the  Soul  within  the  soul          31 
Than  to  be  lord  of  what  remains. 

Hide  still,  best  Good,  in  subtile  wise, 
Beyond  my  nature's  utmost  scope; 

Be  ever  absent  from  mine  eyes 
To  be  twice  present  in  my  hope  ! 

1866. 

TO  H.  W.  L.1 

ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY,  27TH  FEBRUARY,   1867 

I  NEED  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his  song, 
Where  limpid  verse  to  limpid  verse  suc- 
ceeds 
Smooth  as  our  Charles,  when,  fearing  lest 

he  wrong 
The  new  moon's  mirrored  skiff,  he  slides 

along, 

Full  without  noise,  and  whispers  in  his 
reeds. 

With    loving  breath  of   all  the  winds  his 

name 
Is  blown   about   the   world,  but  to  his 

friends 

A  sweeter  secret  hides  behind  his  fame, 
And  Love  steals  shyly  through  the  loud 

acclaim 

To  murmur  a  God  bless  you .'  and  there 
ends.  10 

1  See  Lowell's  letter  sent  with  these  verses,  Febru- 
ary 27,  1867,  in  the  Letters,  vol.  i,  pp.  378,  379.  In  this 
letter  a  stanza  was  added  to  the  poem  :  — 


. 
(Life  of  Longfellow,  vol.  iii,  p.  84.) 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


497 


As  I  muse  backward  up  the  checkered  years 
Wherein  so  much  was  given,  so  much  was 

lost, 
Blessings  in  both  kinds,   such  as  cheapen 

tears,  — 

But  hush  !  this  is  not  for  profaner  ears; 
Let  them  drink  molten  pearls  nor  dream 
the  cost. 

Some  suck  up  poison  from  a  sorrow's  core, 
As   naught   but   nightshade   grew  upon 

earth's  ground; 
Love  turned  all  his  to  heart's-ease,  and  the 

more 

Fate  tried  his  bastions,  she  but  forced  a  door 

Leading  to  sweeter  manhood  and  more 

sound.  20 

Even  as  a  wind-waved  fountain's  swaying 

shade 
Seems  of  mixed  race,  a  gray  wraith  shot 

with  sun, 

So  through  his  trial  faith  translucent  rayed 

Till  darkness,  half  disnatured  so,  betrayed 

A  heart  of  sunshine  that  would  fain  o'er- 


Surely  if  skill  in  song  the  shears  may  stay 
And  of  its  purpose  cheat  the   charmed 

abyss, 

If  our  poor  life  be  lengthened  by  a  lay, 
He  shall  not  go,  although  his  presence  may, 
And  the  next  age  in  praise  shall  double 
this.  30 

Long  days  be  his,  and  each  as  lusty-sweet 
As  gracious  natures  find  his  song  to  be ; 
May  Age  steal  on  with  softly-cadenced  feet 
Falling  in  music,  as  for  him  were  meet 
Whose  choicest   verse   is  harsher-toned 
than  he ! 

1867. 


THE   NIGHTINGALE   IN   THE 
STUDY1 

'  COME  forth ! '  my  catbird  calls  to  me, 
'  And  hear  me  sing  a  cavatina 

1  I  have  not  felt  in  the  mood  to  do  much  during  my 
imprisonment.  One  little  poem  I  have  written,  'The 
Nightingale  in  the  Study.'  .  .  .  'T  is  a  dialogue  between 
my  catbird  and  me  —  he  calling  me  out  of  doors,  I  giv- 
ing my  better  reasons  for  staying  within.  Of  course 
my  nightingale  is  Calderon.  (LowKLt,  in  a  letter  to 
Professor  C.  E.  Norton,  July  8,  1867.  Lowell's  Letters, 
Harper  and  Brothers,  vol.  i,  p.  390.) 


That,  in  this  old  familiar  tree, 
Shall  hang  a  garden  of  Alcina. 

'  These  buttercups  shall  brim  with  wine 
Beyond  all  Lesbian  juice  or  Massic; 

May  not  New  England  be  divine  ? 
My  ode  to  ripening  summer  classic  ? 

'  Or,  if  to  me  you  will  not  hark, 

By  Beaver  Brook  a  thrush  is  ringing     10 
Till  all  the  alder-coverts  dark 

Seem  sunshine-dappled  with  his  singing, 

'  Come  out  beneath  the  unmastered  sky, 

With  its  emancipating  spaces, 
And  learn  to  sing  as  well  as  I, 

Without  premeditated  graces. 

'  What  boot  your  many-volumed  gains, 
Those  withered  leaves  forever  turning, 

To  win,  at  best,  for  all  your  pains, 

A  nature  mummy-wrapt  in  learning  ?    2o 

'  The  leaves  wherein  true  wisdom  lies 
On  living  trees  the  sun  are  drinking; 

Those  white  clouds,  drowsing  through  the 

skies, 
Grew  not  so  beautiful  by  thinking. 

' "  Come  out  !  "  with  me  the  oriole  cries, 
Escape  the  demon  that  pursues  you  ! 

And,  hark,  the  cuckoo  weatherwise, 

Still  hiding  farther  onward,  wooes  you.' 

'  Alas,  dear  friend,  that,  all  my  days, 

Hast  poured  from  that  syringa  thicket  30 

The  quaintly  discontinuous  lays 
To  which  I  hold  a  season-ticket, 

'  A  season-ticket  cheaply  bought 
With  a  dessert  of  pilfered  berries, 

And  who  so  oft  my  soul  hast  caught 
With  morn  and  evening  voluntaries, 

'  Deem  me  not  faithless,  if  all  day  * 
Among  my  dusty  books  I  linger, 

No  pipe,  like  thee,  for  June  to  play 

With  fancy-led,  half-conscious  finger.  40 

'  A  bird  is  singing  in  my  brain 

And  bubbling  o'er  with  mingled  fancies, 
Gay,  tragic,  rapt,  right  heart  of  Spain 

Fed  with  the  sap  of  old  romances. 

'  I  ask  no  ampler  skies  than  those 
His  magic  music  rears  above  me, 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


No  falser  friends,  no  truer  foes,  — 
And  does  not  Dona  Clara  love  me  ? 

'  Cloaked  shapes,  a  twanging  of  guitars, 
A  rush  of  feet,  and  rapiers  clashing,  50 

Then  silence  deep  with  breathless  stars, 
And  overhead  a  white  hand  flashing. 

'  O  music  of  all  moods  and  climes, 

Vengeful,  forgiving,  sensuous,  saintly, 

Where  still,  between  the  Christian  chimes, 
The  Moorish  cymbal  tinkles  faintly  ! 

*  O  life  borne  lightly  in  the  hand, 

For  friend  or  foe  with  grace  Castilian  ! 

O  valley  safe  in  Fancy's  land, 

Not  tramped  to  mud  yet  by  the  million  ! 

'  Bird  of  to-day,  thy  songs  are  stale  61 

To  his,  my  singer  of  all  weathers, 

My  Calderon,  my  nightingale, 

My  Arab  soul  in  Spanish  feathers. 

'  Ah,  friend,  these  singers  dead  so  long, 
And  still,  God  knows,  in  purgatory, 

Give  its  best  sweetness  to  all  song, 
To  Nature's  self  her  better  e-lorv.' 


18G7. 


AN   EMBER  PICTURE 

Bow  strange  are  the  freaks  of  memory  ! 

The  lessons  of  life  we  forget, 
While  a  trifle,  a  trick  of  color, 

In  the  wonderful  web  is  set,  — 

Set  by  some  mordant  of  fancy, 
And,  spite  of  the  wear  and  tear 

Of  time  or  distance  or  trouble, 
Insists  on  its  right  to  be  there. 

A  chance  had  brought  us  together; 

Our  talk  was  of  matters-of -course; 
We  were  nothing,  one  to  the  other, 

But  a  short  half-hour's  resource. 

We  spoke  of  French  acting  and  actors, 
And  their  easy,  natural  way: 

Of  the  weather,  for  it  was  raining 
As  we  drove  home  from  the  play. 

We  debated  the  social  nothings 
We  bore  ourselves  so  to  discuss; 

The  thunderous  rumors  of  battle 
Were  silent  the  while  for  us. 


Arrived  at  her  door,  we  left  her 
With  a  drippingly  hurried  adieu, 

And  our  wheels  went  crunching  the  gravel 
Of  the  oak-darkened  avenue. 

As  we  drove  away  through  the  shadow, 
The  candle  she  held  in  the  door 

From    rain-varnished    tree-trunk   to   tree- 
trunk 
Flashed  fainter,  and  flashed  no  more ;  — 

Flashed  fainter,  then  wholly  faded 

Before  we  had  passed  the  wood;  3i 

But  the  light  of  the  face  behind  it 
Went  with  me  and  stayed  for  good. 

The  vision  of  scarce  a  moment, 
And  hardly  marked  at  the  time, 

It  comes  unbidden  to  haunt  me, 
Like  a  scrap  of  ballad-rhyme. 

Had  she  beauty  ?   Well,  not  what  they  call 
so; 

You  may  find  a  thousand  as  fair; 
And  yet  there  's  her  face  in  my  memory 

With  no  special  claim  to  be  there.          4o 

As  I  sit  sometimes  in  the  twilight, 
And  call  back  to  life  in  the  coals 

Old  faces  and  hopes  and  fancies 

Long  buried  (good  rest  to  their  souls  !), 

Her  face  shines  out  in  the  embers; 

I  see  her  holding  the  light, 
And  hear  the  crunch  of  the  gravel 

And  the  sweep  of  the  rain  that  night. 

'T  is  a  face  that  can  never  grow  older, 
That  never  can  part  with  its  gleam,       $c 

'T  is  a  gracious  possession  forever, 
For  is  it  not  all  a  dream  ? 

1867. 


IN   THE  'TWILIGHT 

MEX  say  the  sullen  instrument, 

That,  from  the  Master's  bow, 

With  paiigs  of  joy  or  woe, 
Feels  music's  soul  through  every  fibre  sent 

Whispers  the  ravished  strings 
More  than  he  knew  or  meant; 

Old  summers  in  its  memory  glow; 

The  secrets  of  the  wind  it  sings; 

It  hears  the  April-loosened  springs ; 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


499 


And  mixes  with  its  mood  10 

All  it  dreamed  when  it  stood 
In  the  murmurous  pine- wood 
Long  ago  ! 

The  magical  moonlight  then 

Steeped  every  bough  and  cone; 
The  roar  of  the  brook  in  the  glen 

Came  dim  from  the  distance  blown; 
The  wind  through  its  glooms  sang  low, 
And  it  swayed  to  and  fro 

With  delight  as  it  stood,  20 

In  the  wonderful  wood, 
Long  ago  ! 

O  my  life,  have  we  not  had  seasons 
That  only  said,  Live  and  rejoice  ? 
That  asked  not  for  causes  and  reasons, 
But  made  us  all  feeling  and  voice  ? 
When  we  went  with   the   winds   in   their 

blowing, 

When  Nature  and  we  were  peers, 
And  we  seemed  to  share  in  the  flowing 
Of  the  inexhaustible  years  ?  30 

Have  we  not  from  the  earth  drawn  juices 
Too  fine  for  earth's  sordid  uses  ? 
Have  I  heard,  have  I  seen 

All  I  feel,  all  I  know  ? 
Doth  my  heart  overween  ? 
Or  could  it  have  been 
Long  ago  ? 

Sometimes  a  breath  floats  by  me, 

An  odor  from  Dreamland  sent, 
That  makes  the  ghost  seem  nigh  me         40 

Of  a  splendor  that  came  and  went, 
Of  a  life  lived  somewhere,  I  know  not 

In  what  diviner  sphere, 
Of  memories  that  stay  not  and  go  not, 

Like  music  beard  once  by  an  ear 

That  cannot  forget  or  reclaim  it, 
A  something  so  shy,  it  would  shame  it 

To  make  it  a  show, 
A  something  too  vague,  could  I  name  it, 

For  others 'to  know,  so 

As  if  I  had  lived  it  or  dreamed  it, 
As  if  I  had  acted  or  schemed  it, 
Long  ago  ! 

And  yet,  could  I  live  it  over, 
This  life  that  stirs  in  my  brain, 

Could  I  be  both  maiden  and  lover, 

Moon  and  tide,  bee  and  clover, 

As  I  seem  to  have  been,  once  again, 

Could  I  but  speak  it  and  show  it, 


This  pleasure  more  sharp  than  pain,      60 

That  baffles  and  lures  me  so, 
The  world  should  once  more  have  a  poet, 
Such  as  it  had 
In  the  ages  glad, 
Long  ago  ! 


FOR   AN   AUTOGRAPH 

THOUGH  old  the  thought  and  oft  exprest, 
'T  is  his  at  last  who  says  it  best,  — 
I  '11  try  my  fortune  with  the  rest. 

Life  is  a  leaf  of  paper  white 
Whereon  each  one  of  us  may  write 
His  word  or  two,  and  then  comes  night. 

'  Lo,  time  and  space  enough,'  we  cry, 
'  To  write  an  epic  ! '  so  we  try 
Our  nibs  upon  the  edge,  and  die. 

Muse  not  which  way  the  pen  to  hold, 
Luck  hates  the  slow  and  loves  the  bold, 
Soon  come  the  darkness  and  the  cold. 

Greatly  begin  !  though  thou  have  time 
But  for  a  line,  be  that  sublime,  — 
Not  failure,  but  low  aim,  is  crime. 

Ah,  with  what  lofty  hope  we  came  ! 
But  we  forget  it,  dream  of  fame, 
And  scrawl,  as  I  do  here,  a  name. 


THE  FOOT-PATH 

IT  mounts  athwart  the  windy  hill 

Through  sallow  slopes  of  upland  bare, 

And  Fancy  climbs  with  foot-fall  still 
Its  narrowing  curves  that  end  in  air. 

By  day,  a  warmer-hearted  blue 

Stoops  softly  to  that  topmost  swell; 

Its  thread-like  windings  seem  a  clue 
To  gracious  climes  where  all  is  well. 

By  night,  far  yonder,  I  surmise 

An  ampler  world  than  clips  my  ken, 

Where  the  great  stars  of  happier  skies 
Commingle  nobler  fates  of  men. 

I  look  and  long,  then  haste  me  home, 
Still  master  of  my  secret  rare; 


Soo 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Once  tried,  the  path  would  end  in  Rome, 
But  now  it  leads  me  everywhere. 

Forever  to  the  new  it  guides, 

From  former  good,  old  overmuch; 

What  Nature  for  her  poets  hides, 

'T  is  wiser  to  divine  than  clutch.  20 

The  bird  I  list  hath  never  come 
Within  the  scope  of  mortal  ear; 

My  prying  step  would  make  him  dumb, 
And  the  fair  tree,  his  shelter,  sear. 

Behind  the  hill,  behind  the  sky, 

Behind  my  inmost  thought,  he  sings; 

No  feet  avail;  to  hear  it  nigh, 

The  song  itself  must  lend  the  wings. 

Sing  on,  sweet  bird  close  hid,  and  raise 
Those  angel  stairways  in  my  brain,        30 

That  climb  from  these  low-vaulted  days 
To  spacious  sunshines  far  from  pain. 

Sing  when  thou  wilt,  enchantment  fleet, 
I  leave  thy  covert  haunt  untrod, 

And  envy  Science  not  her  feat 
To  make  a  twice-told  tale  of  God. 

They  said  the  fairies  tript  no  more, 
And  long  ago  that  Pan  was  dead; 

'T  was  but  that  fools  preferred  to  bore 
Earth's  rind  inch-deep  for  truth  instead. 

Pan  leaps  and  pipes  all  summer  long,        4i 
The  fairies  dance  each  full-mooned  night, 

Would  we  but  doff  our  lenses  strong, 
And  trust  our  wiser  eyes'  delight. 

City  of  Elf-land,  just  without 

Our  seeing,  marvel  ever  new, 
Glimpsed  in  fair  weather,  a  sweet  doubt 

Sketched-in,  mirage-like,  on  the  blue, 

I  build  thee  in  yon  sunset  cloud, 

Whose  edge  allures  to  climb  the  height; 

I  hear  thy  drowned  bells,  inly-loud,  5i 

From    still   pools   dusk  with  dreams  of 
night. 

Thy  gates  are  shut  to  hardiest  will, 

Thy  countersign  of  long-lost  speech,  — 
Those   fountained   courts,  those  chambers 

still, 

Fronting    Time's   far   East,    who   shall 
reach  ? 


I  know  not,  and  will  never  pry, 
But  trust  our  human  heart  for  all ; 

Wonders  that  from  the  seeker  fly 

Into  an  open  sense  may  fall.  60 

Hide  in  thine  own  soul,  and  surprise 
The  password  of  the  unwary  elves; 

Seek  it,  thou  canst  not  bribe  their  spies; 
Unsought,  they  whisper  it  themselves. 

1868. 

ALADDIN 

WHEN  I  was  a  beggarly  boy, 

And  lived  in  a  cellar  damp, 
I  had  not  a  friend  nor  a  toy, 

But  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp; 
When  I  could  not  sleep  for  the  cold, 

I  had  fire  enough  in  my  brain, 
And  builded,  with  roofs  of  gold, 

My  beautiful  castles  in  Spain  ! 

Since  then  I  have  toiled  day  and  night, 

I  have  money  and  power  good  store, 
But  I  'd  give  all  my  lamps  of  silver  bright 

For  the  one  that  is  mine  no  more ; 
Take,  Fortune,  whatever  you  choose, 

You  gave,  and  may  snatch  again; 
I  have  nothing  't  would  pain  me  to  lose, 

For  I  own  no  more  castles  in  Spain  ! 

1853,  1868. 

TO    CHARLES    ELIOT   NORTON1 

AGRO   DOLCE 

THE  wind  is  roistering  out  of  doors, 

My  windows  shake  and  my  chimney  roars; 

My  Elmwood  chimneys  seem  crooning  to 

me, 

As  of  old,  in  their  moody,  minor  key, 
And  out  of  the  past  the  hoarse  wind  blows, 
As  I  sit  in  my  arm-chair,  and  toast  my  toes. 

'  Ho  !   ho  !    nine-and-forty,'   they   seem   to 

sing, 

'  We  saw  you  a  little  toddling  thing. 
We  knew  you  child  and  youth  and  man, 
A  wonderful  fellow  to  dream  and  plan,     10 
With  a  great  thing  always  to  come,  —  who 

knows  ? 
Well,   well !    't  is   some   comfort  to   toast 

one's  toes. 

1  Written   as  dedication  of  the  Tolume    Under  the 
Willows  ind  other  Poems. 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


'  How  many  times  have  you  sat  at  gaze 
Till  the  mouldering  fire  forgot  to  blaze, 
Shaping  among  the  whimsical  coals 
Fancies  and  figures  and  shining  goals  ! 
What  matters  the  ashes  that  cover  those  ? 
While  hickory  lasts  you  can  toast  your  toes. 

'  O  dream-ship-builder  !  where  are  they  all, 
Your   grand   three-deckers,   deep -chested 

and  tall,  20 

That  should  crush  the  waves  under  canvas 

piles, 

And  anchor  at  last  by  the  Fortunate  Isles  ? 
There  's  gray  in  your  beard,  the  years  turn 

foes, 
While   you   muse   in  your  arm-chair,  and 

toast  your  toes.' 

I  sit  and  dream  that  I  hear,  as  of  yore, 
My    Elmwood    chimneys'    deep  -  throated 

roar; 

If  much  be  gone,  there  is  much  remains; 
By  the  embers  of  loss  I  count  my  gains, 
You  and  yours  with  the  best,  till  the  old 

hope  glows 
In  the  fanciful  flame,  as  I  toast  my  toes.  30 

Instead  of  a  fleet  of  broad-browed  ships, 
To  send  a  child's  armada  of  chips  ! 
Instead  of  the  great  guns,  tier  on  tier, 
A  freight  of  pebbles    and    grass  -  blades 

sere  ! 
*•  Well,  maybe  more  love  with  the  less  gift 


Igro\ 


as,  half  moody,  I  toast  my  toes. 

1868. 


AGASSIZi 

Dicesti  egli  ebbe  f  non  viv'  e 
Non  fiere  gli  occhi  suoi  lo  dc 


Come 
i  ancora  ? 
B  lome  ? 


THE  electric  nerve,   whose    instantaneous 

thrill 
Makes  next-door  gossips  of  the  antipodes, 

1  See  Lowell's  letters  to  Professor  Charles  Eliot 
Norton,  February  2,  and  February  26,  1874,  especially 
the  second  letter.  Lowell  was  in  Florence  when  Agassiz 
died.  '  His  death,'  he  says,  '  came  home  to  me  in  a 
singular  way,  growing  into  my  consciousness  from  day 
to  day  as  if  it  were  a  graft  new-set,  that  by  degrees  be- 
came part  of  my  own  wood  and  drew  a  greater  share  of 
my  sap  than  belonged  to  it,  as  grafts  sometimes  will.' 
(Lowell's  Letters,  Harper  and  Brothers,  vol.  ii,  pp.  115- 
116.)  See  also  the  references  in  note  on  p.  211. 


Confutes  poor  Hope's  last  fallacy  of  ease,  — 
The  distance  that  divided  her  from  ill  : 
Earth  sentient  seems  again  as  when  of  old 

The  horny  foot  of  Pan 
Stamped,  and  the  conscious  horror  ran 
Beneath  men's  feet  through  all  her  fibres 

cold: 
Space's  blue  walls  are  mined;  we  feel  the 

throe 

From  underground  of   our   night-mantled 
foe  :  10 

The  flame-winged  feet 
Of  Trade's  new  Mercury,  that  dry-shod  run 
Through  briny  abysses   dreamless  of   the 
sun, 

Are  mercilessly  fleet, 
And  at  a  bound  annihilate 
Ocean's  prerogative  of  short  reprieve ; 

Surely  ill  news  might  wait, 
And  man  be  patient  of  delay  to  grieve: 

Letters  have  sympathies 
And  tell-tale  faces  that  reveal,  2o 

To  senses  finer  than  the  eyes, 
Their  errand's   purport  ere  we  break  the 

seal; 

They  wind  a  sorrow   round   with   circum- 
stance 

To  stay  its  feet,  nor  all  unwarned  displace 
The  veil  that  darkened  from  our  sidelong 
glance 

The  inexorable  face: 
But  now  Fate  stuns  as  with  a  mace ; 
The  savage  of   the  skies,  that   men   have 

caught 

And    some    scant    use    of     language 
taught, 

Tells  only  what  he  must,  —        3o 
The  steel-cold  fact  in  one  laconic  thrust. 


So  thought  I,  as,  with  vague,  mechanic  eyes, 
I  scanned  the  festering  news  we  half  de- 
spise ,. 

Yet  scramble  for  no  less, 
And  read  of  public  scandal,  private  fraud, 
Crime  flaunting  scot-free   while  the   mob 

applaud, 
Office  made  vile  to  bribe  unworthmess, 

And  all  the  unwholesome  mess 
The  Land  of   Honest  Abraham  serves  of 

late 

To  teach  the  Old  World  how  to  wait, 
When  suddenly,  4i 

As  happens  if  the  brain,  from  overweight 
Of  blood,  infect  the  eye, 


502 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Three  tiny  words  grew  lurid  as  I  read, 
And  reeled  commingling:  Agassiz  is  dead. 
As  when,  beneath  the  "street's  familiar  jar, 
An  earthquake's  alien  omen  rumbles  far, 
Men  listen  and  forebode,  I  hung  my  head, 

And  strove  the  present  to  recall, 
As  if  the  blow  that   stunned  were  yet  to 
faU.  5o 


Uprooted  is  our  mountain  oak, 
That  promised  long  security  of  shade 
And   brooding-place   for   many   a   winged 

thought; 

Not  by  Time's  softly-cadenced  stroke 
With  pauses  of  relenting  pity  stayed, 
But  ere  a  root  seemed  sapt,  a  bough  de- 
cayed, 
From   sudden  ambush   by  the    whirlwind 

caught 
And  in  his  broad  maturity  betrayed  ! 


Well  might  I,  as  of  old,  appeal  to  you, 

O  mountains,  woods,  and  streams,      60 
To  help  us  mourn  him,  for  ye  loved  him 

too; 
But  simpler  moods  befit  our  modern 

themes, 

And  no  less  perfect  birth,  of  nature  can, 
Though  they  yearn  tow'rd  him,  sympathize 

with  man, 
Save  as  dumb  fellow-prisoners  through  a 

wall; 

Answer  ye  rather  to  my  call, 
Strong  poets  of  a  more  unconscious  day, 
When  Nature  spake  nor  sought  nice  rea- 
sons why, 

Too  much  for  softer  arts  forgotten  since 
That  teach  our  forthright   tongue  to   lisp 

and  mince,  70 

And  drown  in  music  the  heart's  bitter  cry  ! 
Lead  me  some  steps  in  your  directer  way, 
Teach  me  those  words  that  strike  a  solid 

root 

Within  the  ears  of  men; 
Ye  chiefly,  virile  both  to  think  and  feel, 
Deep-chested    Chapman    and   firm-footed 

Ben, 

For  he  was  masciiline  from  head  to  heel. 
Nay,  let  himself  stand  undiminished  by 
With  those  clear  parts  of  him  that  will  not 

die. 

Himself  from  out  the  recent  dark  I  claim 
To  hear,  and,  if  I  flatter  him,  to  blame;  81 


To  show  himself,  as  still  I  seem  to  see, 
A  mortal,  built  upon  the  antique  plan, 
Brimful  of  lusty  blood  as  ever  ran, 
And  taking  life  as  simply  as  a  tree  ! 
To  claim   my  foiled  good-by  let  him  ap- 
pear, 
Large-limbed   and   human   as   I  saw  him 

near, 
Loosed   from    the   stiffening    uniform    of 

fame : 

And  let  me  treat  him  largely :  I  should  fear 
(If  with  too  prying  lens  I  chanced  to  err, 
Mistaking  catalogue  for  character),  9i 

His  wise  forefinger  raised  in  smiling  blame. 
Nor  would  I  scant  him  with  judicial 

breath 

And  turn  mere  critic  in  an  epitaph; 
I  choose  the  wheat,  incurious  of  the  chaff 
That  swells  fame  living,   chokes   it   after 

death, 

And  would  but  memorize  the  shining  half 
Of  his  large  nature  that  was  turned  to  me: 
Fain  had  I  joined  with  those  that  honored 

him 
With  eyes  that  darkened  because  his  were 

dim,  too 

And  now  been  silent:  but  it  might  not  be. 


In  some  the  genius  is  a  thing  apart, 
A  pillared  hermit  of  the  brain, 

Hoarding  with  incommunicable  art 

Its  intellectual  gain; 
Man's  web  of  circumstance  and  fate 
They  from  their  perch  of  self  observe, 

Indifferent  as  the  figures  on  a  slate 

Are  to  the  planet's  sun-swung  curve 
Whose  bright  returns  they  calculate ; 
Their  nice  adjustment,  part  to  part, 

Were  shaken  from  its  serviceable  mood  1 12 

By  unpremeditated  stirs  of  heart 
Or  jar  of  human  neighborhood: 

Some  find   their  natural  selves,  and  only 
then, 

In  furloughs  of  divine  escape  from  men, 

And  when,  by  that  brief  ecstasy  left  bare, 
Driven  by  some  instinct  of  desire, 

They  wander  worldward,  't  is  to  blink  and 
stare, 

Like  wild  things  of  the  wood  about  a  fire, 

Dazed   by   the    social    glow   they   cannot 
share;  121 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


S°3 


His  nature  brooked  no  lonely  lair, 
But  basked  and  bourgeoned  in  copartnery, 
Companionship,  and  open-windowed  glee : 

He  knew,  for  he  had  tried, 
Those  speculative  heights  that  lure 
The  unpractised  foot,  impatient  of  a  guide, 

Tow'rd  ether  too  attenuately  pure 
For  sweet  unconscious  breath,  though  dear 

to  pride, 

But  better  loved  the  foothold  sure    130 
Of  paths  that  wind  by  old  abodes  of  men 
Who  hope  at  last  the  churchyard's  peace 

secure, 
And   follow   time-worn   rules,   that    them 

suffice, 

Learned  from  their  sires,  traditionally  wise, 
Careful  of  honest  custom's  how  and  when; 
His  mind,  too  brave  to  look  on  Truth 

askance, 
No  more  those   habitudes  of  faith   could 

share, 
But,  tinged  with  sweetness  of  the  old  Swiss 

manse, 
Lingered  around  them  still  and  fain  would 


Patient  to  spy  a  sullen  egg  for  weeks,      140 

The  enigma  of  creation  to  surprise, 

His   truer   instinct    sought   the    life   that 

speaks 

Without  a  mystery  from  kindly  eyes; 
In  no  self-spun  cocoon  of  prudence  wound, 
He  by  the  touch  of  men  was  best  inspired, 
And  caught  his  native  greatness  at  rebound 
From  generosities  itself  had  fired; 
Then  how  the  heat  through  every  fibre  ran, 
Felt  in  the  gathering  presence  of  the  man, 
While  the  apt  word  and  gesture  came  un- 
bid  !  .50 

Virtues  and  faults  it  to  one  metal  wrought, 

Fined  all  his  blood  to  thought, 
And  ran  the  molten  man  in  all  he  said  or 

did. 

All  Tally's  rules  and  all  Quintilian's  too 
He  by  the  light  of  listening  faces  knew, 
And  his  rapt  audience  all  unconscious  lent 
Their  own  roused  force  to  make  him  elo- 
quent; 

Persuasion  fondled  in  his  look  and  tone ; 
Our   speech   (with  strangers   prudish)   he 

could  bring 

To  find  new  charm  in  accents  not  her  own; 
Her  coy  constraints  and  icy  hindrances    161 
Melted  upon  his  lips  to  natural  ease, 
As  a  brook's  fetters  swell  the  dance  of 
spring. 


Nor  yet  all  sweetness:  not  in  vain  he  wore, 
Nor  hi  the  sheath  of  ceremony,  controlled 
By  velvet  courtesy  or  caution  cold, 
That  sword  of  honest  anger  prized  of  old, 

But,  with  two-handed  wrath, 
If  baseness  or  pretension  crossed  his  path, 
Struck  once  nor  needed  to  strike  more. 


His  magic  was  not  far  to  seek, —     171 
He    was   so   human  !    Whether   strong   or 

weak, 
Far  from   his   kind   he   neither   sank   nor 

soared, 

But  sate  an  equal  guest  at  every  board: 
No  beggar  ever  felt  him  condescend, 
No  prince  presume ;  for  still  himself  he  bare 
At  manhood's  simple  level,  and  where'er 
He  met  a  stranger,  there  he  left  a  friend. 
How  large  an  aspect !  nobly  unsevere, 
With   freshness  round   him   of   Olympian 

cheer,  iSo 

Like  visits  of  those  earthly  gods  he  came; 
His  look,  wherever  its  good-fortune  fell, 
Doubled  the  feast  without  a  miracle, 
And  on  the  hearthstone  danced  a  happier 

flame; 

Philemon's  crabbed  vintage  grew  benign; 
Amphitryon's  gold-juice  humanized  to  wine. 


The  garrulous  memories 
Gather    again    from    all    their    far-flown 

nooks, 

Singly  at  first,  and  then  by  twos  and  threes, 

Then  in  a  throng  innumerable,  as  the  rooks 

Thicken  their  twilight  files         191 

Tow'rd   Tintern's  gray   repose  of  roofless 

aisles : 

Once  more  I  see  him  at  the  table's  head 
When    Saturday    her     monthly  k  banquet 

spread 

To  scholars,  poets,  wits, 
All  choice,  some  famous,  loving  things,  not 

names, 

And  so  without  a  twinge  at  others'  fames; 
Such  company  as  wisest  moods  befits, 
Yet  with  no  pedant  blindness  to  the  worth 
Of  undeliberate  mirth,  200 

Natures  benignly  mixed  of  air  and  earth, 
Now  with  the  stars  and  now  with  equal  zest 
Tracing  the  eccentric  orbit  of  a  jest. 


S°4 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


I  see  in  vision  the  warm-lighted  hall, 
The  living  and  the  dead  I  see  again, 
And  but  my  chair  is  empty;  'mid  them  all 
'T  is  I  that  seem  the  dead:  they  all  remain 
Immortal,  changeless  creatures  of  the  brain: 
Wellnigh    I   doubt   which   world    is    real 

most, 

Of  sense  or  spirit,  to  the  truly  sane;         210 
In  this  abstraction  it  were  light  to  deem 
Myself    the    figment     of    some    stronger 

dream; 

They  are  the  real  things,  and  I  the  ghost 
That   glide   unhindered  through   the  solid 

door, 
Vainly  for  recognition  seek  from  chair  to 

chair, 

And  strive  to  speak  and  am  but  futile  air, 
As  truly  most  of  us  are  little  more. 


Him  most  I  see  whom  we  most  dearly  miss, 

The  latest  parted  thence, 
His  features  poised  in  genial  armistice     220 
And  armed  neutrality  of  self-defence 
Beneath  the  forehead's  walled  preeminence, 
While  Tyro,  plucking  facts  with   careless 

reach, 
Settles    off-hand     our     human     how     and 

whence ; 
The  long-trained  veteran  scarcely  wincing 


The  infallible  strategy  of  volunteers 
Making   through   Nature's   walls  its  easy 

breach, 
And  seems  to  learn  where  he  alone  could 

teach. 

Ample  and  ruddy,  the  board's  end  he  fills 
As   he   our   fireside   were,   our   light   and 

heat,  230 

Centre  where  minds    diverse  and   various 

skills 

Find  their  warm  nook  and  stretch  unham- 
pered feet; 

I  see  the  firm  benignity  of  face, 
Wide-smiling  champaign,  without  tameness 

sweet, 

The  mass  Teutonic  toned  to  Gallic  grace, 
The  eyes  whose  sunshine  runs  before  the 

lips 
While  Holmes's   rockets  curve  their  long 

ellipse, 
And  burst  in  seeds  of  fire  that  burst 

again 

To  drop  in  scintillating  rain. 


There  too  the  face  half-rustic,  half -divine, 
Self-poised,  sagacious,  freaked  with  hu- 
mor fine,  241 
Of  him  who  taught  us  not  to  mow  and 

mope 
About  our  fancied  selves,  but  seek  our 

scope 
In  Nature's  world  and  Man's,  nor  fade  to 

hollow  trope, 
Content  with  our  New  World  and  timely 

bold 

To  challenge  the  o'ermastery  of  the  Old ; 
Listening  with  eyes  averse  I  see  him  sit 
Pricked  with  the  cider  of  the  Judge's  wit 
(Ripe-hearted  homebrew,  fresh  and  fresh 

again), 

While  the  wise  nose's  firm-built  aquiline 
Curves  sharper  to  restrain          251 
The  merriment  whose  most  unruly  moods 
Pass  not  the  dumb  laugh  learned  in  lis- 
tening woods 

Of  silence-shedding  pine: 
Hard  by  is  he  whose  art's  consoling  spell 
Hath  given  both  worlds  a  whiff  of  aspho- 
del, 

His  look  still  vernal  'mid  the  wintry  ring 
Of  petals  that  remember,  not  foretell, 
The  paler  primrose  of  a  second  spring. 


And   more  there  are:    but  other  forms 

arise  26o 

And   seen  as  clear,  albeit  with  dimmer 

eyes: 

First  he  from  sympathy  still  held  apart 
By  shrinking  over-eagerness  of  heart, 
Cloud  charged  with  searching  fire,  whose 

shadow's  sweep 
Heightened  mean  things  with  sense   of 

brooding  ill, 
And  steeped  in  doom  familiar  field  and 

hill,— 
New  England's  poet,  soul  reserved  and 

deep, 

November  nature  with  a  name  of  May, 
Whom  high  o'er  Concord  plains  we  laid 

to  sleep, 
While  the  orchards  mocked  us  in  their 

white  array  270 

And   building  robins   wondered   at    our 

tears, 

Snatched  in  his  prime,  the  shape  august 
That  should   have   stood  unbent  'neath 

fourscore  years, 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


5°5 


The  noble  head,  the  eyes  of  furtive  trust, 
All  gone  to  speechless  dust. 
And  he  our  passing  guest,1 

Shy  nature,    too,  and   stung  with   life's 
unrest, 

Whom  we  too  briefly  had  but  could  not 
hold, 

Who  brought  ripe    Oxford's  culture   to 
our  board, 

The  Past's  incalculable  hoard,  280 

Mellowed  by  scutcheoned  panes  in  clois- 
ters old, 

Seclusions,    ivy-hushed,  and    pavements 
sweet 

With  immemorial  lisp  of  musing  feet; 

Young  head  time-tonsured  smoother  than 
a  friar's, 

Boy  face,  but  grave  with  answerless  de- 
sires, 

Poet  in  all  that  poets  have  of  best, 

But  foiled  with  riddles  dark  and  cloudy 
aims, 

Who  now  hath  found  sure  rest, 

Not  by  still  Isis  or  historic  Thames, 

Nor  by  the  Charles  he  tried  to  love  with 
me,  290 

But,  not  misplaced,  by  Arno's  hallowed 
brim, 

Nor  scorned  by  Santa  Croce's  neighbor- 
ing fames, 

Haply   not   mindless,  wheresoe'er   he 
be, 

Of  violets  that  to-day  I  scattered  over 
him.2 

He,  too,  is  there,8 

After  the  good  centurion  fitly  named, 

Whom  learning  dulled  not,  nor  conven- 
tion tamed, 

Shaking  with  burly  mirth  his  hyacinthine 
hair, 

Our  hearty  Grecian  of  Homeric  ways, 
Still  found  the  surer  friend  where  least  he 
hoped  the  praise.  300 

1  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  who  lived  in  Cambridge  from 
1852  to  1853.  Lowell  speaks  of  him  in  the  '  Introduc- 
tion '  to  the  Biglow  Papers,  1866,  as  among  those  whose 
opinion  and  encouragement  he  most  valued  :  L  With  a 
feeling  too  tender  and  grateful  to  be  mixed  with  any 
vanity,  I  mention  as  one  of  these  the  late  A.  H.  Clough, 
who  more  than  any  one  of  those  I  have  known  (no 
longer  living),  except  Hawthorne,  impressed  me  with 
the  constant  presence  of  that  indefinable  thing  we  call 
genius.' 

8  Clough's  grave  is  in  the  little  Protestant  Cemetery 
at  Florence,  near  that  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning, 
and  not  far  from  Walter  Savage  Landor's. 

3  Cornelius  C.  Felton.  See  Longfellow's  '  Three 
Friends  of  Mine.' 


Yea  truly,  as  the  sallowing  years 
Fall  from  us  faster,  like  frost-loosened 

leaves 
Pushed  by  the  misty  touch  of  shortening 

days, 

And  that  unwakened  winter  uears, 
'T  is  the  void  chair  our  surest  guest  re- 
ceives, , 
'T  is  lips  long  cold  that  give  the  warm- 


'T  is  the  lost  voice  comes  oftenest  to  our 
ears; 

We  count  our  rosary  by  the    beads  we 

miss: 
To  me,  at  least,  it  seemeth  so, 

An  exile  in  the  land  once  found  divine,  3 10 
While  my  starved  fire  burns  low, 

And  homeless  winds  at  the  loose  case- 
ment whine 

Shrill  ditties  of  the  snow-roofed  Apen- 
nine. 


IV 


Now  forth  into  the  darkness  all  are  gone, 
But  memory,  still  unsated,  follows  on, 
Retracing  step  by  step  our  homeward  walk, 
With   many  a   laugh   among   our   serious 

talk, 
Across  the  bridge  where,  on  the  dimpling 

tide, 
The  long  red  streamers  from  the  windows 

glide, 

Or  the  dim  western  moon  320 

Rocks  her  skiff's  image  on  the  broad  lagoon, 
And  Boston  shows  a  soft  Venetian  side 
In  that  Arcadian  light  when  roof  and  tree, 
Hard  prose  by  daylight,  dream  in  Italy; 
Or  haply  in  the  sky's  cold  chambers  wide 
Shivered  the  winter  stars,  while  all  below, 
As  if  an  end  were  come  of  human  ill, 
The  world  was  wrapt  in  innocence  of  snow 
And  the  cast-iron  bay  was  blind  and  still; 
These  were  our  poetry;  in  him  perhaps  330 
Science  had  barred  the  gate  that  lets  in 

dream, 
And  he  would  rather  count  the  perch  and 

bream 

Than  with  the  current's  idle  fancy  lapse; 
And  yet  he  had  the  poet's  open  eye 
That  takes  a  frank  delight  in  all  it  sees, 
Nor   was  earth  voiceless,  nor  the  mystic 

sky, 


5°6 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


To  him  the  life-long  friend  of  fields  and 

trees: 

Then  came  the  prose  of  the  suburban  street, 
Its  silence  deepened  by  our  echoing  feet, 
And    converse    such   as   rambling    hazard 

finds ;  340 

Then  he  who  many  cities  knew  and  many 

minds, 
And   men   once    world-noised,    now    mere 

Ossian  forms 

Of  misty  memory,  bade  them  live  anew 
As  when  they  shared  earth's  manifold  de- 
light, 

In  shape,  in  gait,  in  voice,  in  gesture  true, 
And,  with  an  accent  heightening  as  he 

warms, 
Would   stop   forgetful   of   the    shortening 

night, 

Drop  my  confining  arm,  and  pour  profuse 
Much  worldly  wisdom  kept  for  others' 

use, 

Not  for  his  own,  for  he  was  rash  and  free,  350 
His  purse  or  knowledge  all  men's,  like  the 

sea. 

Still  can  I  hear  his  voice's  shrilling  might 
(With  pauses  broken,  while  the  fitful  spark 
He  blew  more  hotly  rounded  on  the  dark 
To   hint   his    features  with  a   Rembrandt 

light) 

Call  Oken  back,  or  Humboldt,  or  Lamarck, 
Or  Cuvier's  taller  shade,  and  many  more 
Whom  he  had  seen,  or  knew  from  others' 

sight, 

And  make  them  men  to  me  as  ne'er  be- 
fore: 

Not  seldom,  as  the  undeadened  fibre  stirred 
Of  nobte  friendships  knit  beyond  the  sea,  361 
German  or  French  thrust  by  the  lagging 

word, 
For  a  good  leash  of  mother-tongues  had 

he. 

At  last,  arrived  at  where  our  paths  divide, 
'  Good  night ! '  and,  ere  the  distance  grew 

too  wide, 
*  Good  night ! '  again;  and  now  with  cheated 

ear 
I  half  hear  his  who  mine  shall  never  hear. 


Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  New  England 

air 
For   his   large   lungs   too   parsimonious 

were, 
As    if    those    empty   rooms   of   dogma 

drear  37o 


Where  the  ghost  shivers  of  a  faith  austere 

Counting  the  horns  o'er  of  the  Beast, 
Still  scaring  those  whose  faith  in  it  is 

least, 

As  if  those  snaps  o'  th'  moral  atmosphere 
That  sharpen  all  the  needles  of  the  East, 

Had  been  to  him  like  death, 
Accustomed    to    draw    Europe's    freer 
breath 

In  a  more  stable  element; 
Nay,  even  our  landscape,  half  the  year 

morose, 

Our  practical  horizon  grimly  pent,        380 
Our  air,  sincere  of  ceremonious  haze, 
Forcing  hard  outlines  mercilessly  close, 
Our  social  monotone  of  level  days, 

Might  make  our  best  seem  banishment; 

But  it  was  nothing  so; 

Haply  his  instinct  might  divine, 

Beneath  our  drift  of  puritanic  snow, 

The  marvel  sensitive  and  fine 
Of  sanguinaria  over-rash  to  blow 
And  trust  its  shyness  to  an  air  malign;  390 
Well  might  he  prize  truth's  warranty  and 

pledge 

In  the  grim  outcrop  of  our  granite  edge, 
Or  Hebrew  fervor  flashing  forth  at  need 
In  the  gaunt  sons  of  Calvin's  iron  breed, 
As  prompt  to  give  as  skilled  to  win  and 

keep; 
But,  though  such  intuitions   might   not 

cheer, 
Yet  life  was  good  to  him,  and,  there  or 

here, 
With  that  sufficing  joy,  the  day  was  never 

cheap; 
Thereto   his   mind   was   its  own  ample 

sphere, 

And,    like    those    buildings    great    that 

through  the  year  400 

Carry  one  temperature,  his  nature  large 

Made   its   own   climate,  nor  could   any 

marge 
Traced  by  convention  stay  him  from  his 

bent: 

He  had  a  habitude  of  mountain  air; 
He  brought  wide  outlook  where  he  went, 

And  could  on  sunny  uplands  dwell 
Of  prospect  sweeter  than  the  pastures 

fair 

High-hung  of  viny  Neufchatel; 
Nor,  surely,  did  he  miss 
Some  pale,  imaginary  bliss         410 
Of  earlier  sights  whose  inner  landscape  still 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


5°7 


I  cannot  think  he  wished  so  soon  to  die 
With  all  his  senses  full  of  eager  heat, 
And  rosy  years  that  stood  expectant  by 
To  buckle  the  winged  sandals  on  their 

feet, 
He  that    was    friends  with  Earth,  and 

all  her  sweet 

Took  with  both  hands  unsparingly: 
Truly  this  life  is  precious  to  the  root, 
And  good  the  feel  of  grass  beneath  the 

foot; 
To  lie  in  buttercups  and  clover-bloom,  420 

Tenants  in  common  with  the  bees, 
And  watch  the  white  clouds  drift  through 

gulfs  of  trees, 

Is  better  than  long  waiting  in  the  tomb; 
Only  once  more  to  feel  the  coming  spring 
As  the  birds  feel  it,  when  it  bids  them 

sing, 

Only  once  more  to  see  the  moon 
*  Through  leaf-fringed  abbey-arches  of  the 

elms 

Curve  her  mild  sickle  in  the  West 
Sweet  with  the  breath  of  hay-cocks,  were 

a  boon 

Worth     any     promise     of      soothsayer 

realms  430 

Or  casual  hope  of  being  elsewhere  blest; 

To  take  December  by  the  beard 
And  crush  the  creaking  snow  with  springy 

foot, 

While  overhead  the  North's  dumb  stream- 
ers shoot, 

Till   Winter  fawn   upon  the  cheek  en- 
deared, 

Then  the  long  evening-ends 
Lingered  by  cosy  chimney-nooks, 
With  high  companionship  of  books 
Or  slippered  talk  of  friends 
And  sweet  habitual  looks,  44o 

Is  better  than  to  stop  the  ears  with  dust: 
Too  soon  the  spectre  comes  to  say,  '  Thou 
must ! ' 


When  toil-crooked  hands  are  crost  upon 

the  breast, 

They  comfort  us  with  sense  of  rest; 
They  must  be  glad  to  lie  forever  still; 
Their  work  is  ended  with  their  day; 
Another  fills  their  room ;  't  is  the  World's 
ancient  way, 


Whether  for  good  or  ill; 
But  the  deft  spinners  of  the  brain, 
Who  love  each  added  day  and  find  it 

gain,  45o 

Them  overtakes  the  doom 
To  snap  the  half-grown  flower  upon  the 

loom 

(Trophy  that  was  to  be  of  life-long  pain), 
The  thread  no  other  skill  can  ever  knit 

again. 
'T  was  so  with  him,  for  he  was  glad  to 

live, 

'T  was  doubly  so,  for  he  left  work  begun; 
Could  not  this  eagerness  of  Fate  forgive 

Till  all  the  allotted  flax  were  spun  ? 
It  matters  not;  for,  go  at  night  or  noon, 
A  friend,  whene'er  he  dies,  has  died  too 

soon,  460 

And,  once  we  hear  the  hopeless  He  is 

dead, 
So  far  as  flesh  hath  knowledge,  all  is 

said. 


I  seem  to  see  the  black  procession  go: 
That  crawling  prose  of  death  too  wel)  I 

know, 

The  vulgar  paraphrase  of  glorious  woe ; 
I   see   it   wind   through  that    unsightly 

grove, 

Once  beautiful,  but  long  defaced 
With    granite    permanence    of    cockney 

taste 
And  all  those  grim  disfigurements  we 

love: 
There,  then,  we  leave  him:  Him?  such 

costly  waste  470 

Nature  rebels  at:  and  it  is  not  true 
Of   those  most  precious  parts  of  him  we 

knew: 

Could  we  be  conscious  but  as  dreamers  be, 
'T  were  sweet  to  leave  this  shif ting  life 

of  tents 

Sunk  in  the  changeless  calm  of  Deity; 
Nay,  to  be  mingled  with  the  elements, 
The  fellow-servant  of  creative  powers, 
Partaker  in  the  solemn  year's  events, 
To   share   the   work   of    busy -fingered 

hours, 

To  be  night's  silent  almoner  of  dew,    480 
To  rise  again  in  plants  and  breathe  and 

grow, 


5o8 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


To  stream  as  tides  the   ocean   caverns 

through, 
Or  with  the  rapture  of   great  winds  to 

blow 
About  earth's  shaken  coignes,  were  not  a 

fate 

To  leave  us  all-disconsolate; 
Even  endless   slumber   in   the  sweetening 

sod 

Of  charitable  earth 
That  takes  out  all  our  mortal  stains, 
And  makes  us  cleanlier  neighbors  of   the 

clod, 

Methinks  were  better  worth  490 

Than  the  poor  fruit  of  most  men's  wake- 
ful pains, 

The  heart's  insatiable  ache: 
But  such  was  not  his  faith, 
Nor  mine :  it  may  be  he  had  trod 
Outside   the  plain  old  path   of    God  thus 

spake, 

But  God  to  him  was  very  God, 
And  not  a  visionary  wraith 
Skulking  in  murky  corners  of  the  mind, 
And  he  was  sure  to  be  499 

Somehow,  somewhere,  imperishable  as  He, 
Not  with  His  essence  mystically  combined, 
As  some  high  spirits  long,  but  whole  and 

free, 

A  perfected  and  conscious  Agassiz. 
And  such  I  figure  him:  the  wise  of  old 
Welcome  and  own  him  of  their   peaceful 

fold, 

Not  truly  with  the  guild  enrolled 
Of  him  who  seeking  inward  guessed 
Diviner  riddles  than  the  rest, 
And  groping  in  the  darks  of  thought 
Touched   the   Great  Hand  and  knew  it 
not;  510 

Rather  he  shares  the  daily  light, 
From  reason's  charier  fountains  won, 
Of  his  great  chief,  the  slow-paced  Stagy- 
rite, 

And  Cuvier  clasps  once  more  his  long-lost 
son. 


The  shape  erect  is  prone:  forever  stilled 
The  winning  tongue;  the  forehead's  high- 
piled  heap, 
A    cairn  which  every   science   helped    to 

build, 

Unvalued  will  its  golden  secrets  keep: 
He  knows  at  last  if   Life   or   Death   be 
best: 


Wherever  he  be  flown,  whatever  vest      520 
The  being  hath  put  on  which  lately  here 
So  many-friended  was,  so  full  of  cheer 
To  make  men  feel  the  Seeker's  noble  zest, 
We  have  not  lost  him  all;  he  is  not  gone 
To   the  dumb  herd  of  them  that  wholly 

die; 

The  beauty  of  his  better  self  lives  on 
In  minds  he  touched  with  fire,  in  many  an 

eye 

He  trained  to  Truth's  exact  severity; 
He  was  a   Teacher:    why  be   grieved   for 

him  529 

Whose    living    word   still   stimulates    the 

air? 

In  endless  file  shall  loving  scholars  come 
The  glow  of  his  transmitted  touch  to  share, 
And   trace   his   features  with  an  eye  less 

dim 
Than    ours    whose    sense    familiar    wont 

makes  numb. 
1874.  1874. 


SONNET* 

SCOTTISH   BORDER 

As  sinks  the  sun  behind  yon  alien  hills 

Whose    heather-purpled    slopes,    in    glory 
rolled, 

Flush    all    my   thought    with    momentary 
gold, 

What    pang    of    vague    regret    my   fancy 
thrills  ? 

Here   'tis  enchanted   ground   the  peasant 
tills, 

Where  the  shy  ballad  dared  its  blooms  un- 
fold, 

And  memory's  glamour  makes  new  sights 
seem  old, 

As  when   our   life   some  vanished   dream 
fulfils. 

Yet  not  to  thee  belong  these  painless  tears, 

Land  loved  ere  seen:  before  my  darkened 
eyes, 

From  far  beyond  the  waters  and  the  years, 

Horizons  mute  that  wait  their  poet  rise ; 

The   stream   before   me   fades  and  disap- 
pears, 

And  in  the  Charles  the  western  splendor 
dies. 

1875. 

1  See  Lowell's  letter  to  HoweUs,  March  21,  1875, 
Letters,  TO!,  ii,  p.  137. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


THREE   MEMORIAL   POEMS 


5°9 


*  Coscienza  fusca 
i vergogna 
u-~s 

If  I  let  fall  a  word  of  bitter  mirth » 

When  public  shames  more  shameful  pardon  won, 

Some  have  misjudged  me,  and  my  service  done, 

If  small,  yet  faithful,  deemed  of  little  worth : 

Through  veins  that  drew  their  life  from  Western  earth 

Two  hundred  years  and  more  my  blood  hath  run 

In  no  polluted  course  from  sire  to  son ; 

And  thus  was  I  predestined  ere  my  birth 

To  love  the  soil  wherewith  my  fibres  own 

Instinctive  sympathies;  yet  love  it  BO 

As  honor  would,  nor  lightly  to  dethrone 

Judgment,  the  stamp  of  manhood,  nor  forego 

The  son's  right  to  a  mother  dearer  grown 

With  growing  knowledge  and  more  chaste  than  snow. 


ODE8 

READ  AT  THE  ONE  HUNDREDTH  ANNI- 
VERSARY OF  THE  FIGHT  AT  CONCORD 
BRIDGE 

I9TH  APRIL,  1875 

I 

WHO  cometh  over  the  hills, 

Her  garments  with  morning  sweet, 

The  dance  of  a  thousand  rills 

Making  music  before  her  feet  ? 

Her  presence  freshens  the  air; 

Sunshine  steals  light  from  her  face; 

The  leaden  footstep  of  Care 

Leaps  to  the  tune  of  her  pace, 

Fairness  of  all  that  is  fair, 

Grace  at  the  heart  of  all  grace,  10 

Sweetener  of  hut  and  of  hall, 

B  ringer  of  life  out  of  naught, 

Freedom,  oh,  fairest  of  all 

The  daughters  of  Time  and  Thought ! 


She  cometh,  cometh  to-day: 
Hark  !  hear  ye  not  her  tread, 
Sending  a  thrill  through  your  clay, 
Under  the  sod  there,  ye  dead, 
Her  nurslings  and  champions  ? 
Do  ye  not  hear,  as  she  comes,  20 

The  bay  of  the  deep-mouthed  guns, 
The  gathering  rote  of  the  drums  ? 

1  Alluding  to  the  lines  in  the  second  stanza  of  Low- 
ell's '  Agassiz,'  which  were  written  in  1874,  when  the 
political  corruption  of  that  time  was  being  revealed  and 
in  many  cases  condoned,—  lines  which  were  at  the 
time  severely  criticised  as  '  unpatriotic.' 

-  See  Lowell's  letter  to  James  B.  Thayer,  January 
14,  1877.  Letters,  vol.  ii,  pp.  188-191. 


The  bells  that  called  ye  to  prayer, 
How  wildly  they  clamor  on  her, 
Crying,  '  She  cometh  !  prepare 
Her  to  praise  and  her  to  honor, 
That  a  hundred  years  ago 
Scattered  here  in  blood  and  tears 
Potent  seeds  wherefrom  should  gro\ 
Gladness  for  a  hundred  years  ! ' 


Tell  me,  young  men,  have  ye  seen 

Creature  of  diviner  mien 

For  true  hearts  to  long  and  cry  for, 

Manly  hearts  to  live  and  die  for  ? 

What  hath  she  that  others  want  ? 

Brows  that  all  endearments  haunt, 

Eyes  that  make  it  sweet  to  dare, 

Smiles  that  cheer  untimely  death, 

Looks  that  fortify  despair, 

Tones  more  brave  than  trumpet's  breath  $ 

Tell  me,  maidens,  have  ye  known          4l 

Household  charm  more  sweetly  rare, 

Grace  of  woman  ampler  blown, 

Modesty  more  debonair, 

Younger  heart  with  wit  full  grown  ? 

Oh  for  an  hour  of  my  prime, 

The  pulse  of  my  hotter  years, 

That  I  might  praise  her  in  rhyme 

Would  tingle  your  eyelids  to  tears, 

Our  sweetness,  our  strength,  and  our  star, 

Our  hope,  our  joy,  and  our  trust,  51 

Who  lifted  us  out  of  the  dust, 

And  made  us  whatever  we  are  ! 


Whiter  than  moonshine  upon  snow 
Her  raiment  is,  but  round  the  horn 


510 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Crimson  stained;  and,  as  to  and  fro 
Her  sandals  flash,  we  see  on  them, 
And  on  her  instep  veined  with  blue, 
Flecks  of  crimson,  on  those  fair  feet, 
High-arched,  Diana-like,  and  fleet,         60 
Fit  for  no  grosser  stain  than  dew: 
Oh,  call  them  rather  chrisms  than  stains, 
Sacred  and  from  heroic  veins  ! 
For,  in  the  glory-guarded  pass, 
Her  haughty  and  far-shining  head 
She  bowed  to  shrive  Leonidas 
With  his  imperishable  dead; 
Her,  too,  Morgarten  saw, 
Where  the  Swiss  lion  fleshed  his  icy  paw; 
She  followed  Cromwell's  quenchless  star 
Where  the  grim  Puritan  tread  7i 

Shook  Marston,  Naseby,  and  Dunbar: 
Yea,  on  her  feet  are  dearer  dyes 
Yet  fresh,  not  looked  on  with  untearf ul 
eyes. 


Our  fathers  found  her  in  the  woods 
Where  Nature  meditates  and  broods, 
The  seeds  of  unexampled  things 
Which  Time  to  consummation  brings 
Through  life  and  death  and  man's  unstable 

moods ; 

They  met  her  here,  not  recognized,  80 

A.  sylvan  huntress  clothed  in  furs, 
To  whose  chaste  wants  her  bow  sufficed, 
Nor  dreamed  what  destinies  were  hers: 
She  taught  them  bee-like  to  create 
Their  simpler  forms  of  Church  and  State; 
She  taught  them  to  endue 
The  past  with  other  functions  than  it  knew, 
And  turn  in  channels  strange  the  uncertain 

stream  of  Fate; 
Better  than  all,  she  fenced  them  in  their 

need 

With  iron-handed  Duty's  sternest  creed,  9o 
'Gainst  Self's  lean  wolf  that  ravens  word 

and  deed. 


Why  cometh  she  hither  to-day 

To  this  low  village  of  the  plain 

Far  from  the  Present's  loud  highway, 

From   Trade's    cool   heart    and    seething 

brain  ? 

Why  cometh  she  ?   She  was  not  far  away. 
Since  the  soul  touched  it,  not  in  vain, 
With  pathos  of  immortal  gain, 
'T  is  here  her  fondest  memories  stay. 
She  loves  yon  pine-bemurmured  ridge     100 


Where  now  our  broad-browed  poet  sleeps, 
Dear  to  both  Englands ;  near  him  he 
Who  wore  the  ring  of  Canace; 
But  most  her  heart  to  rapture  leaps 
Where  stood  that  era-parting  bridge, 
O'er  which,  with  footfall  still  as  dew, 
The  Old  Time  passed  into  the  New; 
Where,  as  your  stealthy  river  creeps, 
He  whispers  to  his  listening  weeds 
Tales  of  sublimest  homespun  deeds.         no 
Here  English  law  and  English  thought 
'Gainst  the  self-will  of  England  fought; 
And    here  were  men  (coequal  with  their 

fate), 
Who  did  great    things,    unconscious   they 

were  great. 

They  dreamed  not  what  a  die  was  cast 
With  that  first  answering  shot ;  what  then  ? 
There  was  their  duty;  they  were  men 
Schooled  the  soul's  inward  gospel  to  obey, 
Though  leading  to  the  lion's  den. 
They   felt  the  habit-hallowed  world  give 

way  120 

Beneath  their  lives,  and  on  went  they, 
Unhappy  who  was  last. 
When  Buttrick  gave  the  word, 
That  awful  idol  of  the  unchallenged  Past, 
Strong  in  their  love,  and  in  their  lineage 

strong, 

Fell  crashing:  if  they  heard  it  not, 
Yet  the  earth  heard, 
Nor  ever  hath  forgot, 
As  on  from  startled  throne  to  throne, 
Where    Superstition     sate     or     conscious 

Wrong,  130 

A  shudder  ran   of   some  dread  birth  un- 
known. 

Thrice  venerable  spot ! 
River  more  fateful  than  the  Rubicon  ! 
O'er  those  red  planks,  to  snatch  her  diadem, 
Man's    Hope,   star  -  girdled,  sprang    with 

them, 
And  over  ways  untried  the  feet  of  Doom 

strode  on. 


Think  you  these  felt  no  charms 

In  their  gray  homesteads  and  embowered 

farms  ? 

In  household  faces  waiting  at  the  door 
Their  evening  step  should  lighten   up  no 

more  ?  140 

In  fields  their  boyish  feet  had  known  ? 
In  trees  their  fathers'  hands  had  set, 
And  which  with  them  had  grown, 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


Widening  each  year  their  leafy  coronet  ? 
Felt  they  no  pang  of  passionate  regret 
For  those  unsolid  goods  that  seem  so  much 

our  own  ? 
These  things  are  dear  to  every  man  that 

lives, 
And  life  prized  more  for  what  it  lends  than 

gives. 

Yea,  many  a  tie,  through  iteration  sweet, 
Strove  to  detain  their  fatal  feet;  150 

And  yet  the  enduring  half  they  chose, 
Whose  choice  decides  a  man  life's  slave  or 

king, 
The  invisible  things  of  God  before  the  seen 

and  known: 

Therefore  their  memory  inspiration  blows 
With   echoes  gathering    on  from  zone  to 

zone; 

For  manhood  is  the  one  immortal  thing 
Beneath  Time's  changeful  sky, 
And,  where  it  lightened  once,  from  age  to 

age, 

Men  come  to  learn,  in  grateful  pilgrimage, 
That  length  of  days  is  knowing  when  to 

die.  160 


What  marvellous    change    of   things  and 

men  ! 

She,  a  world-wandering  orphan  then, 
So  mighty  now  !  Those  are  her  streams 
That  whirl  the  myriad,  myriad  wheels 
Of  all  that  does,  and  all  that  dreams, 
Of  all  that  thinks,  and  all  that  feels, 
Through  spaces  stretched  from  sea  to  sea; 
By  idle  tongues  and  busy  brains, 
By  who  doth  right,  and  who  refrains, 
Hers  are  our  losses  and  our  gains;  170 

Our  maker  and  our  victim  she. 


Maiden  half  mortal,  half  divine, 

We  triumphed  in  thy  coming;  to  the  brinks 

Our  hearts  were  filled  with  pride's  tumul- 

tuous wine; 

Better  to-day  who  rather  feels  than  thinks. 
Yet  will  some  graver  thoughts  intrude, 
And  cares  of  sterner  mood; 
They  won  thee  :  who  shall  keep  thee  ?  From 

the  deeps 
Where  discrowned  empires  o'er  their  ruins 

brood, 
And  many  a  thwarted  hope  wrings  its  weak 

hands  and  weeps,  180 

1  hear  the  voice  as  of  a  mighty  wind 


From  all  heaven's  caverns  rushing  uncon- 

fined, 
'I,   Freedom,   dwell   with   Knowledge:   I 

abide 
With  men  whom  dust   of   faction  cannot 

blind 

To  the  slow  tracings  of  the  Eternal  Mind; 
With  men  by  culture  trained  and  fortified, 
Who  bitter  duty  to  sweet  lusts  prefer, 
Fearless  to  counsel  and  obey. 
Conscience   my   sceptre    is,   and    law   my 

sword, 

Not  to  be  drawn  in  passion  or  in  play,     190 
But  terrible  to  punish  and  deter; 
Implacable  as  God's  word, 
Like  it,  a  shepherd's  crook  to  them  that 

blindly  err. 
Your  firm-pulsed  sires,  my  martyrs  and  my 

saints, 
Offshoots  of  that  one  stock  whose  patient 


Hath  known  to  mingle  flux  with  perma- 
nence, 

Rated  my  chaste  denials  and  restraints 
Above  the  moment's  dear-paid  paradise: 
Beware  lest,  shifting  with  Time's  gradual 

creep, 

The   light   that    guided    shine    into    your 

eyes.  200 

The   envious   Powers  of   ill  nor  wink  nor 


Be  therefore  timely  wise, 

Nor  laugh  when  this  one  steals,  and  that 

one  lies, 
As  if  your  luck  could  cheat  those  sleepless 

spies, 
Till  the   deaf   Fury  comes  your  house  to 

sweep  ! ' 

I  hear  the  voice,  and  unaff righted  bow; 
Ye  shall  not  be  prophetic  now, 
Heralds  of  ill,  that  darkening  fly 
Between  my  vision  and  the  rainbowed  sky, 
Or   on  the    left   your  hoarse    forebodings 

croak  210 

From  many  a  blasted  bough 
On  Yggdrasil's  storm-sinewed  oak, 
That  once  was  green,  Hope  of  the  West,  as 

thou: 

Yet  pardon  if  I  tremble  while  I  boast; 
For  I  have  loved  as  those  who  pardon  most 

x 

Away,  ungrateful  doubt,  away  ! 
At  least  she  is  our  own  to-day. 
Break  into  rapture,  my  song, 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Verses,  leap  forth  hi  the  sun, 
Bearing  the  joyauce  along  220 

Like  a  train  of  fire  as  ye  run ! 
Pause  not  for  choosing  of  words, 
Let  them  but  blossom  and  sing 
Blithe  as  the  orchards  and  birds 
With  the  new  coining  of  spring  ! 
Dance  in  your  jollity,  bells; 
Shout,  cannon;  cease  not,  ye  drums; 
Answer,  ye  hillside  and  dells; 
Bow,  all  ye  people  !     She  comes, 
Radiant,  calm-fronted,  as  when  230 

She  hallowed  that  April  day. 
Stay  with  us !     Yes,  thou  shalt  stay, 
Softener  and  strengtheuer  of  men, 
Freedom,  not  won  by  the  vain, 
Not  to  be  courted  in  play, 
Not  to  be  kept  without  pain. 
Stay  with  us  !     Yes,  thou  wilt  stay, 
Handmaid  and  mistress  of  all, 
Kindler  of  deed  and  of  thought, 
Thou  that  to  hut  and  to  hall  240 

Equal  deliverance  brought ! 
Souls  of  her  martyrs,  draw  near, 
Touch  our  dull  lips  with  your  fire, 
That  we  may  praise  without  fear 
Her  our  delight,  our  desire, 
Our  faith's  inextinguishable  star, 
Our  hope,  our  remembrance,  our  trust, 
Our  present,  our  past,  our  to  be, 
Who  will  mingle  her  life  with  our  dust 
And  makes  us  deserve  to  be  free  !       250 
!75.  1875. 


UNDER  THE   OLD   ELM1 

POEM  READ  AT  CAMBRIDGE  ON  THE 
HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  WASH- 
INGTON'S TAKING  COMMAND  OF  THE 
AMERICAN  ARMY,  3D  JULY,  1775 


WORDS   pass   as   wind,   but    where   great 

deeds  were  done 
A  power  abides  transfused   from  sire   to 


i  I  think  the  '  Old  Elm '  the  best  of  the  three 
[memorial  poems],  mainly  because  it  was  composed 
after  my  college  duties  were  over,  though  even  in  that 
I  was  distracted  by  the  intervention  of  the  Commence- 
ment dinner.  (LOWELL,  letter  of  January  14,  1877.) 

We,  too,  here  in  my  birthplace,  having  found  out 


The   boy  feels  deeper  meanings  thrill  his 

ear, 
That  tingling  through  his   pulse   life-long 

shall  run, 

With  sure  impulsion  to  keep  honor  clear, 
When,  pointing  down,  his  father  whispers, 

'  Here, 
Here,  where  we  stand,  stood  he,  the  purely 

great, 
Whose    soul   no  siren   passion   could    un- 

sphere, 
Then  nameless,  now  a  power  and  mixed 

with  fate.' 

Historic  town,  thou  boldest  sacred  dust,    10 
Once   known   to   men    as    pious,   learned, 

just, 
And    one    memorial    pile    that    dares   to 

last; 

But  Memory  greets  with  reverential  kiss 
No  spot  in  all  thy  circuit  sweet  as  this, 
Touched  by  that  modest  glory  as  it  past, 
O'er  which  yon  elin  hath  piously  displayed 
These  hundred  years  its  monumental  shade. 


Of  our  swift  passage  through  this  scenery 
Of  life  and  death,  more  durable  than  we, 
What  landmark  so  congenial  as  a  tree       20 
Repeating  its  green  legend  every  spring, 
And,  with  a  yearly  ring, 
Recording  the  fair  seasons  as  they  flee, 
Type  of  our  brief  but  still-renewed  mortal- 
ity ? 

We  fall  as  leaves:  the  immortal  trunk  re- 
mains, 
Builded   with   costly   juice  of   hearts  and 

brains 
Gone  to  the  mould  now,  whither  all  that 

be 

Vanish  returnless,  yet  are  procreant  still 
In  human  lives  to  come  of  good  or  ill, 
And  feed  unseen  the  roots  of  Destiny.       30 

that  something  happened  here  a  hundred  years  ago, 
must  have  our  centennial ;  and,  since  my  friend  and 
townsman  Dr.  Holmes  could  n't  be  had,  I  felt  bound 
to  do  the  poetry  for  the  day.  We  have  still  standing 
the  elm  under  which  Washington  took  command  of  the 
American  (till  then  provincial)  army,  and  under  which 
also  Whitefleld  had  preached  some  thirty  years  before. 
I  took  advantage  of  the  occasion  to  hold  out  a  hand  of 
kindly  reconciliation  to  Virginia.  I  could  do  it  with  the 
profounder  feeling,  that  no  family  lost  more  than  mine 
by  the  Civil  War.  Three  nephews  (the  hope  of  our  race) 
were  killed  in  one  or  other  of  the  Virginia  battles, 
and  three  cousins  on  other  of  those  bloody  fields. 
(LOWELL,  letter  of  July  6,  1875.  Quoted  by  permission 
of  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers.) 

Se«  also  the  letters  of  October  16, 1875,  and  February 
22,  1877. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


Men's  monuments,  grown  old,  forget  their 

names 

They  should  eternize,  but  the  place 
Where  shining  souls  have  passed  imbibes  a 

grace 
Beyond   mere   earth;   some    sweetness   of 

their  fames 

Leaves  in  the  soil  its  unextinguished  trace, 
Pungent,  pathetic,  sad  with  nobler  aims, 
That   penetrates  our   lives   and   heightens 

them  or  shames. 

This  insubstantial  world  and  fleet 
Seems  solid  for  a  moment  when  we  stand 
On  dust  ennobled  by  heroic  feet  40 

Once  mighty  to  sustain  a  tottering  land, 
And  mighty  still  such  burthen  to  upbear, 
Nor  doomed  to  tread  the  path  of  things 

that  merely  were: 

Our  sense,  refined  with  virtue  of  the  spot, 
Across  the  mists  of  Lethe's  sleepy  stream 
Recalls  him,  the  sole  chief  without  a  blot, 
No  more  a  pallid  image  and  a  dream, 
But  as  he  dwelt  with  men  decorously  su- 
preme. 

2 

Our  grosser    minds   need   this   terrestrial 

hint 

To  raise  long-buried  days  from  tombs  of 
print:  5o 

'  Here  stood  he,'  softly  we  repeat, 
And  lo,  the  statue  shrined  and  still 
In  that  gray  minster-f  ront  we  call  the  Past, 
Feels  in  its  frozen  veins  our  pulses  thrill, 
Breathes  living  air  and  mocks  at  Death's 

deceit. 

It  warms,  it  stirs,  comes  down  to  us  at  last, 
Its  features  human  with  familiar  light, 
A  man,  beyond  the  historian's  art  to  kill, 
Or  sculptor's  to  efface  with  patient  chisel- 
blight. 

3 
Sure  the  dumb  earth  hath  memory,  nor  for 

naught  60 

Was  Fancy  given,  on  whose  enchanted  loom 
Present    and   Past   commingle,  fruit   and 

bloom 

Of  one  fair  bough,  inseparably  wrought 
Into  the  seamless  tapestry  of  thought. 
So  charmed,  with  undeluded  eye  we  see 
In  history's  fragmentary  tale 


Bright  clues  of  continuity, 
Learn  that  high  natures  over  Time  prevail, 
And  feel  ourselves  a  link  in  that  entail 
That  binds  all  ages  past  with  all  that  are 
to  be.  70 


Beneath  our  consecrated  elm 

A  century  ago  he  stood, 

Famed  vaguely  for  that  old  fight  in   the 

wood 
Whose    red   surge   sought,  but   could  not 

overwhelm 

The  life  foredoomed  to  wield  our  rough- 
hewn  helm : J  — 

From  colleges,  where  now  the  gown 
To  arms  had  yielded,2  from  the  town, 
Our  rude  self-summoned  levies  flocked  to 

see 
The  new-come   chiefs   and   wonder  which 

was  he. 
No  need  to  question  long;  close-lipped  and 

tall,  80 

Long   trained  in  murder-brooding  forests 

lone 

To  bridle  others'  clamors  and  his  own, 
Firmly  erect,  he  towered  above  them  all, 
The  incarnate  discipline  that  was  to  free 
With  iron  curb  that  armed  democracy. 


A  motley  rout  was   that  which   came    to 

stare, 
In  raiment   tanned   by   years   of  sun   and 

storm, 

Of  every  shape  that  was  not  uniform, 
Dotted  with  regimentals  here  and  there; 
An  army  all  of  captains,  used  to  pray       90 
And  stiff  in  fight,  but  serious  drill's  despair, 
Skilled  to  debate  their  orders,  not  obey; 
Deacons  were  there,  selectmen,  men  of  note 
In   half-tamed   hamlets   ambushed    round 

with  woods, 
Ready  to  settle  Freewill  by  a  vote, 

1  After  the  defeat  of  Braddock,  Washington  wrote  to 
his  brother :  '  By  the  all-powerful  dispensations  of  Pro- 
vidence I  have  been  protected  beyond  all  human  proba- 
bility or  expectation ;  for  I  had  four  bullets  through 
my  coat,  and  two  horses  shot  under  me,  yet  I  escaped 
unhurt,  although  death  was  levelling  my  companions 
on  every  side  of  me.'     (Quoted  in  the  Riverside  Litera- 
ture Series.) 

2  Harvard,  Hollis,  and  Massachusetts  Halls  were  used 
as  barracks,  and  the  President's  house  was  for  a  time 
Washington's  headquarters. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


But  largely  liberal  to  its  private  moods; 
Prompt  to  assert  by  manners,  voice,  or  pen, 
Or  ruder  arms,  their  rights  as  Englishmen, 
Nor  much  fastidious  as  to  how  and  when: 
Yet  seasoned  stuff  and  fittest  to  create     100 
A  thought-staid  army  or  a  lasting  state: 
Haughty  they  said  he  was,  at  first;  severe; 
But  owned,  as  all  men  own,  the  steady  hand 
Upon  the  bridle,  patient  to  command, 
Prized,  as  all  prize,  the  justice  pure  from 

fear, 
And  learned  to  honor  first,  then  love  him, 

then  revere. 

Such   power   there   is   in   clear-eyed   self- 
restraint 

And   purpose   clean   as   light   from  every 
selfish  taint. 


Musing  beneath  the  legendary  tree, 

The  years  between  furl  off:  I  seem  to  see  no 

The  sun-flecks,  shaken  the  stirred  foliage 

through, 

Dapple  with  gold  his  sober  buff  and  blue 
And   weave  prophetic  aureoles  round   the 

head 
That  shines  our  beacon  now  nor  darkens 

with  the  dead. 
O  man  of  silent  mood, 
A  stranger  among  strangers  then, 
How  art  thou  since  renowned  the  Great, 

the  Good, 

Familiar  as  the  day  in  all  the  homes  of  men  I 
The  winged  years,  that  winnow  praise  to 

blame, 
Blow  many  names  out:  they  but  fan  and 

flame  J2o 

The  self-renewing  splendors  of  thy  fame. 


How  many  subtlest  influences  unite, 
With  spiritual  touch  of  joy  or  pain, 
Invisible  as  air  and  soft  as  light, 
To  body  forth  that  image  of  the  brain 
We  call  our  Country,  visionary  shape, 
Loved  more  than  woman,  fuller  of  fire  than 

wine, 

Whose  charm  can  none  define, 
Nor  any,  though  he  flee  it,  can  escape  !    129 
All  party-colored  threads  the  weaver  Time 
Sets  in  his  web,  now  trivial,  now  sublime, 
All  memories,  all  forebodings,  hopes  and 

fears, 


Mountain  and  river,  forest,  prairie,  sea, 
A  hill,  a  rock,  a  homestead,  field,  or  tree, 
The  casual  gleanings  of  unreckoned  years, 
Take  goddess-shape  at  last  and  there  is  She, 
Old   at   our   birth,  new   as   the   springing 

hours, 
Shrine  of  our  weakness,   fortress   of   our 

powers, 

Consoler,  kindler,  peerless  'mid  her  peers, 
A    force  that  'neath    our  conscious    being 

stirs,  ,4* 

A  life  to  give  ours  permanence,  when  we 
Are  borne  to  mingle  our  poor  earth  witfr 

hers, 
And  all  this  glowing  world  goes  with  us  on 

our  biers. 


Nations  are  long  results,  by  ruder  ways 
Gathering  the  might  that  warrants  length 

of  days; 
They    may    be    pieced    of    half-reluctant 

shares 

Welded     by     hammer-strokes    of    broad- 
brained  kings, 

Or  from  a  doughty  people  grow,  the  heirs 
Of  wise  traditions  widening  cautious  rings; 
At  best  they  are  computable  things,         150 
A  strength  behind  us  making  us  feel  bold 
In  right,  or,  as  may  chance,  in  wrong; 
Whose  force  by  figures  may  be  summed 

and  told, 

So  many  soldiers,  ships,  and  dollars  strong, 
And  we    but  drops  that  bear  compulsory 

part 

In  the  dumb  throb  of  a  mechanic  heart; 
But   Country   is   a   shape   of   each   man's 

mind 

Sacred  from  definition,  unconfined 
By  the  cramped  walls  where  daily  drudger- 
ies grind; 

An  inward  vision,  yet  an  outward  birth   160 
Of  sweet  familiar  heaven  and  earth; 
A    brooding   Presence   that   stirs   motions 

blind 

Of  wings  within  our  embryo  being's  shell 
That  wait  but  her  completer  spell 
To  make  us  eagle-natured,  fit  to  dare 
Life's  nobler  spaces  and  untarnished  air. 


You,   who   hold    dear   this   self-conceived 

ideal, 
Whose  faith  and  works  alone  can  make  it 

real, 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


Sr5 


Bring   all   your   fairest  gifts  to  deck   her 

shrine 
Who  lifts  our  lives  away  from  Thine  and 

Mine  170 

And  feeds  the  lamp  of  manhood  more  di- 

viue 

With  fragrant  oils  of  quenchless  constancy. 
When  all  have  done  their  utmost,  surely  he 
Hath  given  the  best  who  gives  a  character 
Erect  and  constant,  which  nor  any  shock 
Of  loosened  elements,  nor  the  forceful  sea 
Of  flowing  or  of  ebbing  fates,  can  stir 
From  its  deep  bases  in  the  living  rock 
Of  ancient  manhood's  sweet  security: 
And  this  he  gave,  serenely  far  from  pride 
As   baseness,  boon  with   prosperous    stars 

allied,  ,ST 

Part  of  what  nobler  seed  shall  in  our  loins 

abide. 


No   bond    of    men   as   common    pride   so 

strong, 

In  names  time-filtered  for  the  lips  of  song, 
Still  operant,  with  the  primal  Forces  bound 
Whose  currents,  on  their  spiritual  round, 
Transfuse  our  mortal  will  nor  are  gainsaid: 
These  are  their  arsenals,  these  the  exhaust- 
less  mines 

That  give  a  constant    heart  in  great  de- 
signs; 

These  are  the  stuff  whereof  such  dreams 
are  made  190 

As  make  heroic  men:  thus  surely  he 
Still   holds  in  place  the  massy  blocks  he 

laid 

'Neath  our  new  frame,  enforcing  soberly 
The  self-control  that  makes  and  keeps  a 
people  free. 


Oh,  for  a  drop  of  that  Cornelian  ink 
Which  gave    Agricola    dateless  length  of 

days, 

To  celebrate  him  fitly,  neither  swerve 
To  phrase   unkempt,  nor  pass  discretion's 

brink, 

With  him  so  statue-like  in  sad  reserve, 
So  diffident   to    claim,  so  forward  to   de- 
serve !  200 
Nor  need  I  shun  due  influence  of  his  fame 
Who,  mortal   among    mortals,    seemed  as 
now 


The  equestrian  shape  with  unimpassioned 
brow, 

That  paces  silent  on  through  vistas  of  ac- 
claim. 


What  figure  more  immovably  august 
Than  that  grave  strength  so  patient  and  so 

pure, 
Calm  in    good  fortune,  when  it  wavered, 

sure, 

That  mind  serene,  impenetrably  just, 
Modelled  on  classic  lines  so   simple  they 

endure  ? 

That  soul  so  softly  radiant  and  so  white  210 
The  track  it  left  seems  less  of  fire  than 

light, 

Cold  but  to  such  as  love  distemperature  ? 
And  if  pure  light,  as  some  deem,  be  the 

force 
That   drives    rejoicing    planets    on     their 


Why  for  his  power  benign  seek  an  impurer 

source  ? 
His   was  the    true  enthusiasm  that. burns 

long, 

Domestically  bright, 
Fed  from  itself  and  shy  of  human  sight, 
The  hidden   force  that  makes  a  lifetime 

strong, 

And  not  the  short-lived  fuel  of  a  song.    220 
Passionless,  say  you  ?     What  is  passion  for 
But  to  sublime  our  natures  and  control 
To  front  heroic  toils  with  late  return, 
Or  none,  or  such  as  shames  the  conqueror  ? 
That  fire  was  fed   with  substance  of  the 

soul 
And  not  with  holiday  stubble,  that  could 

burn, 

Unpraised  of  men  who  after  bonfires  run, 
Through  seven  slow  years  of  unadvancing 

war, 
Equal  when  fields  were  lost  or  fields  were 

won, 

With  breath  of  popular  applause  or  blame, 
Nor  fanned  nor  damped,  unquenchably  the 

same,  231 

Too  inward  to  be  reached  by  flaws  of  idle 

fame. 


Soldier  and  statesman,  rarest  unison; 
High-poised  example  of  great  duties  done 
Simply  as  breathing,  a  world's  honors  worn 
As  life's  indifferent  gifts  to  all  men  born; 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Dumb  for  himself,  unless  it  were  to  God, 
But  for  his  barefoot  soldiers  eloquent, 
Tramping  the    snow   to  coral  where  they 

trod, 

Held  by  his  awe  in  hollow-eyed  content;  240 
Modest,  yet    firm    as    Nature's  self;    un- 

blamed 
Save    by    the    men    his     nobler    temper 

shamed; 
Never  seduced  through   show  of  present 

good 

By  other  than  unsetting  lights  to  steer 
New-trimmed    in    Heaven,    nor   than    his 

steadfast  mood 
More  steadfast,  far  from  rashness  as  from 

fear; 
Rigid,   but    with    himself    first,    grasping 

still 
In  swerveless  poise  the  wave-beat  helm  of 

will; 
Not    honored    then    or    now  because    he 

wooed 

The  popular  voice,  but  that  he  still  with- 
stood; 250 
Broad-minded,   higher-souled,   there  is  but 

one, 
Who  was  all  this  and  ours,  and  al]  men's, 

—  WASHINGTON. 


Minds  strong  by  fits,  irregularly  great, 
That  flash  and  darken  like  revolving  lights, 
Catch  more  the  vulgar  eye  unschooled  to 

wait 
On  the   long  curve  of  patient   days  and 

nights 

Rounding  a  whole  life  to  the  circle  fair 
Of    orbed   fulfilment;   and    this    balanced 

soul, 

So  simple  in  its  grandeur,  coldly  bare 
Of  draperies  theatric,  standing  there        260 
In  perfect  symmetry  of  self-control, 
Seems  not   so  great  at   first,  but  greater 

grows 

Still  as  we  look,  and  by  experience  learn 
How  grand  this  quiet  is,  how  nobly  stern 
The  discipline  that  wrought  through  life- 
long throes 
That  energetic  passion  of  repose. 

5 

A  nature  too  decorous  and  severe, 
Too  self-respectful  in  its  griefs  and  joys, 
For  ardent  girls  and  boys 
Who  find  no  genius  in  a  mind  so  clear     270 


That   its   grave  depths  seem   obvious  and 

near, 

Nor  a  soul  great  that  made  so  little  noise. 
They  feel  no  force  in  that  calm-cadenced 

phrase, 
The   habitual  full-dress   of  his  well-bred 

mind, 
That  seems  to  pace   the  minuet's  courtly 

maze 
And  tell  of  ampler  leisures,  roomier  length 

of  days. 

His  firm-based  brain,  to  self  so  little  kind 
That  no  tumultuary  blood  could  blind, 
Formed  to  control  men,  not  amaze, 
Looms  not  like  those  that  borrow  height  of 

haze :  280 

It  was  a  world  of  statelier  movement  then 
Than  this  we  fret  in,  he  a  denizen 
Of  that  ideal  Rome  that  made  a  man  for 

men. 


The  longer  on  this  earth  we  live 

And  weigh  the  various  qualities  of  men, 

Seeing  how  most  are  fugitive, 

Or  fitful  gifts,  at  best,  of  now  and  then, 

Wind-wavered  corpse-lights,  daughters  of 

the  fen, 
The  more  we  feel  the  high  stern-featured 

beauty 

Of  plain  devotedness  to  duty,  29* 

Steadfast  and  still,  nor  paid  with   mortal 

praise, 

But  finding  amplest  recompense 
For  life's  ungarlanded  expense 
In  work  done  squarely  and  unwasted  days. 
For   this   we   honor   him,   that    he    could 

know 

How  sweet  the  service  and  how  free 
Of  her,  God's  eldest  daughter  here  below, 
And  choose  in  meanest  raiment  which  was 

she. 


Placid  completeness,  life  without  a  fall 
From  faith  or  highest  aims,  truth's  breach- 
less  wall,  300 
Surely  if  any  fame  can  bear  the  touch, 
His  will  say  '  Here  ! '  at  the  last  trumpet's 

call, 

The  unexpressive  man  whose  life  expressed 
so  much. 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


5*7 


Never  to  see  a  nation  born 
Hath  been  given  to  mortal  man, 
Unless  to  those  who,  on  that  summer  morn, 
Gazed  silent  when  the  great  Virginian 
Unsheathed  the  sword  whose  fatal  flash 
Shot  union  through  the  incoherent  clash 
Of  our  loose  atoms,  crystallizing  them     310 
Around  a  single  will's  unpliant  stem, 
And  making  purpose  of  emotion  rash. 
Out  of  that  scabbard  sprang,  as  from  its 

womb, 

Nebulous  at  first  but  hardening  to  a  star, 
Through  mutual  share  of  sunburst  and  of 

gloom, 
The  common  faith  that  made  us  what  we 


That  lifted  blade  transformed  our  jangling 

clans, 

Till  then  provincial,  to  Americans, 
And  made  a  unity  of  wildering  plans; 
Here  was  the  doom  fixed:  here  is  marked 

the  date  320 

When   this   New   World  awoke  to  man's 

estate, 

Burnt  its  last  ship  and  ceased  to  look  be- 
hind: 
Nor  thoughtless  was  the  choice ;  no  love  or 

hate 
Could  from  its  poise  move  that  deliberate 

mind, 

Weighing  between  too  early  and  too  late 
Those  pitfalls  of  the  man  refused  by  Fate: 
His  was  the  impartial  vision  of  the  great 
Who   see   not  as  they  wish,  but  as  they 

find. 

He  saw  the  dangers  of  defeat,  nor  less 
The  incomputable  perils  of  success;          330 
The  sacred  past  thrown  by,  an  empty  rind; 
The  futivre,  cloud-land,  snare  of  prophets 

blind; 

The  waste  of  war,  the  ignominy  of  peace ; 
On  either  hand  a  sullen  rear  of  woes, 
Whose   garnered    lightnings    none    could 


Piling    its    thunder-heads   and    muttering 

'  Cease ! ' 
Yet  drew  not  back  his  hand,  but  gravely 

chose 
The   seeming-desperate   task   whence   our 

new  nation  rose. 


A  noble  choice  and  of  immortal  seed  ! 
Nor  deem  that  acts  heroic  wait  on  chance 
Or  easy  were  as  in  a  boy's  romance;        341 
The  man's  whole  life  preludes  the  single 

deed 

That  shall  decide  if  his  inheritance 
Be  with  the  sifted  few  of  matchless  breed, 
Our  race's  sap  and  sustenance, 
Or  with  the  unmotived  herd  that  only  sleep 

and  feed. 

Choice  seems  a  thing  indifferent;  thus  or  so, 
What  matters  it  ?   The  Fates  with  mock- 
ing face 

Look  on  inexorable,  nor  seem  to  know 
Where  the  lot  lurks  that  gives  life's  fore- 
most place.  3So 
Yet  Duty's  leaden  casket  holds  it  still, 
And  but  two  ways  are  offered  to  our  will, 
Toil  with  rare  triumph,  ease  with  safe  ditf- 

grace, 
The  problem  still  for  us  and  all  of  human 

race. 

He  chose,  as  men  choose,  where  most  dan- 
ger showed, 

Nor  ever  faltered  'neath  the  load 
Of  petty  cares,  that  gall  great  hearts  the 

most, 
But   kept   right   on   the  strenuous  up-hill 

road, 

Strong  to  the  end,  above  complaint  or  boast: 
The   popular   tempest  on   his  rock-mailed 
coast  36o 

Wasted  its  wind-borne  spray, 
The  noisy  marvel  of  a  day; 
His  soul  sate  still  in  its  unstormed  abode. 


VIII 

Virginia  gave  us  this  imperial  man 

Cast  in  the  massive  mould 

Of  those  high-statured  ages  old 

Which  into  grander  forms  our  mortal  metal 

ran; 

She  gave  us  this  unblemished  gentleman: 
What  shall  we  give  her  back  but  love  and 

praise 

As  in  the  dear  old  unestranged  days        37o 
Before  the  inevitable  wrong  began  ? 
Mother  of  States  and  undiminished  men, 
Thou  gavest  us  a  country,  giving  him, 
And  we  owe  alway  what  we  owed  thee  then: 
The  boon  thou  wouldst  have  snatched  from 

us  agen 
Shines  as  before  with  no  abatement  dim. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


A  great  man's  memory  is  the  only  thing 
With  influence  to  outlast  the  present  whim 
And  bind   us   as   when  here   he    knit  our 

golden  ring.  379 

All  of  him  that  was  subject  to  the  hours 
Lies  in  thy  soil  and  makes  it  part  of  ours: 
Across  more  recent  graves, 
Where  unresentful  Nature  waves 
Her  pennons  o'er  the  shot-ploughed  sod, 
Proclaiming  the  sweet  Truce  of  God, 
We  from  this  consecrated  plain  stretch  out 
Our  hands   as  free  from  afterthought  or 

doubt 

As  here  the  united  North 
Poured  her  embrowned  manhood  forth 
In  welcome  of  our  savior  and  thy  son.      390 
Through  battle  we  have  better  learned  thy 

worth, 
The    long-breathed   valor   and   undaunted 

will, 
Which,    like    his   own,  the   day's   disaster 

done, 

Could,  safe  in  manhood,  suffer  and  be  still. 
Both  thine   and   ours   the   victory   hardly 

won; 

If  ever  with  distempered  voice  or  pen 
We  have  misdeemed  thee,  here  we  take  it 

back, 
And   for  the   dead   of  both  don  common 

black. 

Be  to  us  evermore  as  thou  wast  then, 
As  we  forget  thou  hast  not  always  been, 
Mother  of  States  and  unpolluted  men,     401 
Virginia,  fitly  named  from  England's  manly 

queen  ! 
1875.  1875. 


AN    ODE 

FOR  THE    FOURTH   OF  JULY,    1  876 
I 


ENTRANCED  I  saw  a  vision  in  the  cloud 
That  loitered  dreaming  in  yon  sunset  sky, 
Full  of  fair  shapes,  half  creatures   of  the 

eye, 

Half  chance-evoked  by  the  wind's  fantasy 
In  golden  mist,  an  ever-shifting  crowd: 
There,  'mid  unreal   forms   that  came  and 

went 

In  air-spun  robes,  of  evanescent  dye, 
A  woman's  semblance  shone  preeminent; 
Not  armed  like  Pallas,  not  like  Hera  proud, 


But  as  on  household  diligence  intent,         10 
Beside  her  visionary  wheel  she  bent 
Like  Arete  or  Bertha,  nor  than  they 
Less  queenly  in  her  port:  about  her  knee 
Glad  children  clustered  confident  in  play: 
Placid  her  pose,  the  calm  of  energy ; 
And  over  her  broad  brow  in  many  a  round 
(That  loosened  would  have  gilt  her  gar- 
ment's hem), 
Succinct,   as   toil   prescribes,  the  hair  was 

wound 

In  lustrous  coils,  a  natural  diadem. 
The  cloud  changed  shape,  obsequious  to  the 
whim  20 

Of  some  transmuting  influence  felt  in  me, 
And,  looking  now,  a  wolf  I  seemed  to  see 
Limned  in  that  vapor,  gaunt  and  hunger- 
bold, 
Threatening  her  charge:  resolve  in  every 

limb, 

Erect  she  flamed  in  mail  of  sun-wove  gold, 
Penthesilea's  self  for  battle  dight; 
One  arm  uplifted  braced  a  flickering  spear, 
And  one  her  adamantine  shield  made  light; 
Her  face,  helm-shadowed,  grew  a  thing  to 

fear, 

And  her  fierce  eyes,  by  danger  challenged, 

took  3o 

Her  trident  -  sceptred   mother's   dauntless 

look. 
'  I  know   thee   now,  O   goddess-born  ! '   I 

cried, 
And  turned  with  loftier  brow  and  firmer 

stride; 

For  in  that  spectral  cloud-work  I  had  seen 
Her  image,  bodied  forth  by  love  and  pride, 
The  fearless,  the  benign,  the  mother-eyed, 
The  fairer  world's  toil-consecrated  queen. 


What  shape  by  exile  dreamed '  elates  the 
mind 

Like  hers  whose  hand,  a  fortress  of  the 
poor, 

No  blood  in  vengeance  spilt,  though  lawful, 
stains  ?  4o 

Who  never  turned  a  suppliant  from  her 
door? 

Whose  conquests  are  the  gains  of  all  man- 
kind ? 

To-day  her  thanks  shall  fly  on  every  wind, 

Unstinted,  unrebuked,  from  shore  to  shore, 

One  love,  one  hope,  and  not  a  doubt  be- 
hind ! 

Cannon  to  cannon  shall  repeat  her  praise 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


Banner  to  banner  flap  it  forth  in  flame ; 
Her   children   shall   rise   up   to  bless  her 

name, 

And  wish  her  harmless  length  of  days, 
The  mighty  mother  of  a  mighty  brood,     50 
Blessed  in  all  tongues   and  dear  to  every 

blood, 
The  beautiful,  the  strong,  and,  best  of  all, 

the  good. 


Seven  years  long  was  the  bow 
Of  battle  bent,  and  the  heightening 
Storm-heaps  convulsed  with  the  throe 
Of  their  uncontainable  lightning; 
Seven  years  long  heard  the  sea 
Crash  of  navies  and  wave-borne  thunder; 
Then  drifted  the  cloud-rack  a-lee, 
And  new  stars  were  seen,  a  world's  won- 
der; 60 
Each  by  her  sisters  made  bright, 
All  binding  all  to  their  stations, 
Cluster  of  manifold  light 
Startling  the  old  constellations: 
Men  looked  up  and  grew  pale: 
Was  it  a  comet  or  star, 
Omen  of  blessing  or  bale, 
Hung  o'er  the  ocean  afar  ? 


Stormy  the  day  of  her  birth: 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  strong, 
She,  the  last  ripeness  of  earth, 
Beautiful,  prophesied  long  ? 
Stormy  the  days  of  her  prime: 
Hers  are  the  piilses  that  beat 
Higher  for  perils  sublime, 
Making  them  fawn  at  her  feet. 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  strong  ? 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  wise  ? 
Daring  and  counsel  belong 
Of  right  to  her  confident  eyes: 
Human  and  motherly  they, 
Careless  of  station  or  race: 
Hearken  !  her  children  to-day 
Shout  for  the  joy  of  her  face. 


No  praises  of  the  past  are  hers, 

No  fanes  by  hallowing  time  caressed, 

No  broken  arch  that  ministers 

To  Time's  sad  instinct  in  the  breast: 


She  has  not  gathered  from  the  years 
Grandeur  of  tragedies  and  tears,  90 

Nor  from  long  leisure  the  unrest 
That  finds  repose  in  forms  of  classic  grace: 
These  may  delight  the  coming  race 
Who  haply  shall  not  count  it  to  our  crime 
That   we    who   fain   would   sing  are  here 

before  our  time. 
She  also  hath  her  monuments; 
Not  such  as  stand  decrepitly  resigned 
To  ruin-mark  the  path  of  dead  events 
That  left  no  seed  of  better  days  behind, 
The  tourist's  pensioners   that   show   their 
scars  ioo 

And  maunder  of  forgotten  wars ; 
She  builds  not  on  the  ground,  but  in  the 

mind, 

Her  open-hearted  palaces 
For  larger-thoughted  men  with  heaven  and 

earth  at  ease: 
Her  march    the   plump   mow   marks,  the 

sleepless  wheel, 

The   golden   sheaf,  the    self-swayed  com- 
monweal; 

The  happy  homesteads  hid  in  orchard  trees 
Whose  sacrificial  smokes  through  peaceful 

air 
Rise  lost  in  heaven,  the  household's  silent 

prayer; 

What  architect  hath  bettered  these  ?        no 
With  softened  eye  the  westward  traveller 

sees 

A  thousand  miles  of  neighbors  side  by  side, 
Holding  by  toil-won  titles  fresh  from  God 
The  lands  no  serf  or  seigneur  ever  trod, 
With  manhood  latent  in  the  very  sod, 
Where  the  long  billow  of  the  wheatfield's 

tide 

Flows  to  the  sky  across  the  prairie  wide, 
A  sweeter  vision  than  the  castled  Rhine, 
Kindly  with  thoughts  of  Ruth  and.  Bible- 
days  benign. 


O  ancient  commonwealths,  that  we  revere 
Haply   because   we   could   not   know   you 

near,  12I 

Your  deeds  like  statues  down  the  aisles  of 

Time 

Shine  peerless  in  memorial  calm  sublime, 
And  Athens  is  a  trumpet  still,  and  Rome; 
Yet  which  of  your  achievements  is  not  foam 
Weighed  with  this  one  of  hers  (below  you 

far 
In  fame,  and  born  beneath  a  milder  star), 


520 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


That  to  Earth's  orphans,  far  as  curves  the 

dome 
Of  death-deaf  sky,   the   bounteous   West 

means  home, 

With  dear  precedency  of  natural  ties       130 
That  stretch  from  roof  to  roof  and  make 

men  gently  wise  ? 
And  if  the  nobler  passions  wane, 
Distorted  to  base  use,  if  the  near  goal 
Of  insubstantial  gain 
Tempt  from  the  proper  race-course  of  the 

soul 

That  crowns  their  patient  breath 
Whose  feet,  song-sandalled,  are  too  fleet 

for  Death, 

Yet  may  she  claim  one  privilege  urbane 
And  haply  first  upon  the  civic  roll, 
That  none  can  breathe  her  air  nor  grow 

humane. 


Oh,  better  far  the  briefest  hour 

Of   Athens    self -consumed,   whose   plastic 

power 
Hid  Beauty  safe  from  Death  in  words  or 

stone ; 
Of  Rome,  fair  quarry  where  those  eagles 

crowd 
Whose  fulgurous  vans  about  the  world  had 

blown 

Triumphant  storm  and  seeds  of  polity; 
Of  Venice,  fading  o'er  her  shipless  sea, 
Last  iridescence  of  a  sunset  cloud; 
Than  this  inert  prosperity, 
This  bovine  comfort  in  the  sense  alone  !  150 
Yet  art  came  slowly  even  to  such  as  those, 
Whom   no   past   genius    cheated   of   their 

own 

With  prudence  of  o'ermastering  precedent; 
Petal  by  petal  spreads  the  perfect  rose, 
Secure  of  the  divine  event; 
And  only  children  rend  the  bud  half-blown 
To  forestall  Nature  in  her  calm  intent: 
Time  hath  a  quiver  full  of  purposes 
Which  miss   not   of  their   aim,  to  us  un- 
known, 

And  brings  about  the  impossible  with  ease : 
Haply  for  us  the  ideal  dawn  shall  break  161 
From  where  in  legend-tinted  line 
The  peaks  of  Hellas  drink  the  morning's 

wine, 

To  tremble  on  our  lids  with  mystic  sign 
Till  the  drowsed  ichor  in  our  veins  awake 
And    set   our   pulse  in   tune   with   moods 

divine: 


Long  the  day  lingered  in    its   sea-fringed 

nest, 
Then  touched  the  Tuscan  hills  with  golden 

lance 

And  paused;  then  on  to  Spain  and  France 
The    splendor    flew,    and   Albion's   misty 

crest:  ,70 

Shall  Ocean   bar   him   from   his   destined 

West? 

Or  are  we,  then,  arrived  too  late, 
Doomed  with  the  rest  to  grope  disconsolate, 
Foreclosed  of  Beauty  by  our  modern  date  ? 


Ill 


Poets,  as  their  heads  grow  gray, 
Look  from  too  far  behind  the  eyes, 
Too  long-experienced  to  be  wise 
In  guileless  youth's  diviner  way; 
Life  sings  not  now,  but  prophesies; 
Time's  shadows  they  no  more  behold,      180 
But,  under  them,  the  riddle  old 
That  mocks,  bewilders,  and  defies: 
In  childhood's  face  the  seed  of  shame, 
In  the  green  tree  an  ambushed  flame, 
In  Phosphor  a  vaunt-guard  of  Night, 
They,  though  against  their  will,  divine, 
And  dread  the  care-dispelling  wine 
Stored  from  the  Muse's  vintage  bright, 
By  age  imbued  with  second-sight. 
From  Faith's  own  eyelids  there  peeps  out, 
Even  as  they  look,  the  leer  of  doubt;        191 
The  festal  wreath  their  fancy  loads 
With  care  that  whispers  and  forebodes : 
Nqr  this  our  triumph-day  can  blunt  Me- 
gsera's  goads. 


Murmur  of  many  voices  in  the  air 
Denounces  us  degenerate, 
Unfaithful  guardians  of  a  noble  fate, 
And  prompts  indifference  or  despair: 
Is  this  the  country    that    we    dreamed  in 

youth, 
Where  wisdom    and   not    numbers  should 

have  weight,  200 

Seed-field     of     simpler    manners,    braver 

truth, 

Where  shams  should  cease  to  dominate 
In  household,  church,  and  state  ? 
Is  this  Atlantis?   This  the  unpoisoned  soil, 
Sea-whelmed  for  ages  and  recovered  late, 
Where  parasitic  greed  no  more  should  coil 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


521 


Round  Freedom's  stem  to  bend  awry  and 

blight 
What  grew  so  fair,  sole  plant  of  love  and 

light  ? 
Who  sit  where  once  in  crowned   seclusion 

sate 

The  long-proved  athletes  of  debate          210 
Trained  from  their  youth,  as  none  thinks 

needful  now  ? 

Is  this  debating  club  where  boys  dispute, 
And  wrangle  o'er  their  stolen  fruit, 
The  Senate,  erewhile  cloister  of  the  few, 
Where  Clay  once  flashed   and  Webster's 

cloudy  brow 
Brooded  those  bolts  of  thought  that  all  the 

horizon  knew  ? 


Oh,  as  this  pensive  moonlight  blurs  my 
pines, 

Here  while  I  sit  and  meditate  these  lines, 

To  gray-green  dreams  of  what  they  are  by 
day, 

So  would  some  light,  not  reason's  sharp- 
edged  ray,  220 

Trance  me  in  moonshine  as  before  the 
flight 

Of  years  had  won  me  this  unwelcome  right 

To  see  things  as  they  are,  or  shall  be 
soon, 

In  the  frank  prose  of  undissembling  noon  ! 


Back  to  my  breast,  ungrateful  sigh  ! 

Whoever  fails,  whoever  errs, 

The  penalty  be  ours,  not  hers! 

The  present  still  seems  vulgar,  seen  too 

nigh; 

The  golden  age  is  still  the  age  that  's  past: 
I  ask  no  drowsy  opiate  230 

To  dull  my  vision  of  that  only  state 
Founded  on  faith  in   mail,  and   therefore 

sure  to  last. 

For,  O  my  country,  touched  by  thee, 
The  gray  hairs  gather  back  their  gold; 
Thy  thought  sets  all  my  pulses  free; 
The  heart  refuses  to  be  old; 
The  love  is  all  that  I  can  see. 
Not  to  thy  natal-day  belong 
Time's  prudent  doubt  or  age's  wrong, 
But  gifts  of  gratitude  and  song:  240 

Unsummoned  crowd  the  thankful  words, 
As  sap  in  spring-time  floods  the  tree, 
Foreboding  the  return  of  birds, 
For  all  that  thou  hast  been  to  me  ! 


Flawless  his   heart    and  tempered  to  the 

core 
Who,   beckoned    by   the    forward-leaning 

wave, 

First  left  behind  him  the  firm-footed  shore, 
And,  urged  by  every  nerve  of  sail  and 

oar, 
Steered  for  the  Unknown  which   gods   to 

mortals  gave,  249 

Of  thought  and  action  the  mysterious  door, 
Bugbear  of  fools,  a  summons  to  the  brave: 
Strength  found  he  in  the  unsympathizing 

sun, 
And  strange  stars  from  beneath  the  horizon 

won, 

And  the  dumb  ocean  pitilessly  grave: 
High-hearted  surely  he; 
But  bolder  they  who  first  off-cast 
Their  moorings  from  the  habitable  Past 
And  ventured  chartless  on  the  sea 
Of  storm-engendering  Liberty: 
For  all  earth's  width  of  waters  is  a  span,  260 
And   their   convulsed  existence   mere    re- 
pose. 

Matched  with  the  unstable  heart  of  man, 
Shoreless    in   wants,   mist-girt    in    all    it 

knows, 

Open  to  every  wind  of  sect  or  clan, 
And  sudden-passionate  in  ebbs  and  flows. 


They  steered   by  stars  the  elder  shipmen 

knew, 
And  laid  their  courses  where  the  currents 

draw 

Of  ancient  wisdom  channelled  deep  in  law, 
The  undaunted  few 
Who    changed    the    Old    World   for   the 

New,  270 

And  more  devoutly  prized 
Than  all  perfection  theorized 
The  more  imperfect  that   had    roots   and 

grew. 

They  founded  deep  and  well, 
Those  danger-chosen  chiefs  of  men 
Who  still  believed  in  Heaven  and  Hell, 
Nor  hoped  to  find  a  spell, 
In  some  fine  flourish  of  a  pen, 
To  make  a  better  man 
Than  long-considering  Nature  will  or  can, 
Secure  against  his  own  mistakes,  281 

Content  with  what  life  gives  or  takes, 


522 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And  acting  still  on  some  fore-ordered  plan, 
A  cog  of  iron  in  an  iron  wheel, 
Too  nicely  poised  to  think  or  feel, 
Dumb    motor    in    a    clock-like   common- 
weal. 

They  wasted  not  their  brain  in  schemes 
Of  what  man  might  be   in  some   bubble- 
sphere, 

As  if  he  must  be  other  than  he  seems 
Because  he  was   not  what   he    should   be 
here,  290 

Postponing  Time's  slow  proof  to  petulant 

dreams: 

Yet  herein  they  were  great 
Beyond  the  incredulous  lawgivers  of  yore, 
And  wiser  than  the  wisdom  of  the  shelf, 
That  they  conceived  a  deeper-rooted  state, 
Of    hardier   growth,    alive   from   rind   to 

core, 
By  making  man  sole  sponsor  of  himself. 


DEATH  OF  QUEEN   MERCEDES1 

HERS  all  that  Earth  could  promise  or  be- 
stow, — 

'Youth,  Beauty,  Love,  a  crown,  the  beckon- 
ing years, 

Lids  never  wet,  unless  with  joyous  tears, 
A  life  remote  from  every  sordid  woe, 
And  by  a  nation's  swelled  to  lordlier  flow. 
What  lurking-place,  thought  we,  for  doubts 

or  fears, 
When,  the  day's  swan,  she  swam  along  the 

cheers 

Of  the  Alcala,  five  happy  months  ago  ? 
The  guns  were  shouting  lo  Hymen  then 
That,  on  her  birthday,  now  denounce  her 

doom; 
The  same  white  steeds   that  tossed  their 

scorn  of  men 

To-day  as  proudly  drag  her  to  the  tomb. 
Grim  jest  of  fate  !     Yet  who  dare  call  it 

blind, 

Knowing  what  life  is,  what  our  human-kind? 
1878.  (1888.) 

1  Anything  more  tragic  than  the  circumstances  of 
her  death  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine.  She  was  actu- 
ally receiving  extreme  unction  while  the  guns  were 
firing  in  honor  of  her  eighteenth  birthday,  and  four 
days  later  we  saw  her  dragged  to  her  dreary  toinb  at 
the  Escorial,  followed  by  the  coach  and  its  eight  white 
horses  in  which  she  had  driven  in  triumph  from  the 
church  to  the  palace  on  the  day  of  her  wedding.  The 
poor  brutes  tossed  their  snowy  plumes  as  haughtily 
now  as  then.  ( LOWELL,  in  a  letter  to  his  daughter, 
Mahel  Lowell  Burnett,  July  2R,  1878.  Quoted  by  per- 
mission of  Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers.) 


God  of  our  fathers,  Thou  who  wast, 

Art,  and  shalt  be  when  those  eye-wise  who 

flout 

Thy  secret  presence  shall  be  lost  3oo 

In  the  great  light   that   dazzles   them   to 

doubt, 

We,  sprung  from  loins  of  stalwart  men 
Whose  strength  was  in  their  trust 
That  Thou  wouldst  make  thy  dwelling  in 

their  dust 

And  walk  with  those  a  fellow-citizen 
Who  build  a  city  of  the  just, 
We,  who  believe  Life's  bases  rest 
Beyond  the  probe  of  chemic  test, 
Still,  like  our  fathers,  feel  Thee  near, 
Sure  that,  while  lasts  the  immutable  decree, 
The  land  to  Human  Nature  dear  3n 

Shall  not  be  unbeloved  of  Thee. 
1876.  1876. 


PHOEBE2 

ERE  pales  in  Heaven  the  morning  star 
A  bird,  the  loneliest  of  its  kind, 

Hears  Dawn's  faint  footfall  from  afar 
While  all  its  mates  are  dumb  and  blind. 

It  is  a  wee  sad-colored  thing, 

As  shy  and  secret  as  a  maid, 
That,  ere  in  choir  the  robins  sing, 

Pipes  its  own  name  like  one  afraid. 

It  seems  pain-prompted  to  repeat 

The  story  of  some  ancient  ill,  10 

But  Phcebe!  Photbe!  sadly  sweet 
Is  all  it  says,  and  then  is  still. 

It  calls  and  listens.     Earth  and  sky, 
Hushed  by  the  pathos  of  its  fate, 

Listen:  no  whisper  of  reply 

Comes  from  its  doom-dissevered  mate. 

Phoebe!  it  calls  and  calls  again, 

And  Ovid,  could  he  but  have  heard, 

Had  hung  a  legendary  pain 

About  the  memory  of  the  bird;  2c 

A  pain  articulate  so  long, 

In  penance  of  some  mouldered  crime 

-  For  Lowell's  careful  revision  of  this  poem,  see  his 
letters  to  Mr.  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  September  4.  5, 
6,  8,  and  12,  and  October  24,  1SS1;  quoted  in  the  Cam- 
bridge Edition  of  Lowell,  pp.  480-481. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


523 


Whose  ghost  still  flies  the  Furies'  thong 
Down  the  waste  solitudes  of  time. 

Waif  of  the  young  World's  wonder-hour, 
When  gods  found  mortal  maidens  fair, 

And  will  malign  was  joined  with  power 
Love's  kindly  laws  to  overbear, 

Like  Progne,  did  it  feel  the  stress 

And  coil  of  the  prevailing  words  30 

Close  round  its  being,  and  compress 
Man's  ampler  nature  to  a  bird's  ? 

One  only  memory  left  of  all 

The  motley  crowd  of  vanished  scenes, 
Hers,  and  vain  impulse  to  recall 

By  repetition  what  it  means. 

Phcebe  !  is  all  it  has  to  say 

In  plaintive  cadence  o'er  and  o'er, 

Like  children  that  have  lost  their  way, 
And  know  their  names,  but  nothing  more. 

Is  it  a  type,  since  Nature's  Lyre  41 

Vibrates  to  every  note  in  man, 

Of  that  insatiable  desire. 

Meant  to  be  so  since  life  began  ? 

I,  in  strange  lands  at  gray  of  dawn, 

Wakeful,  have  heard  that  fruitless  plaint 

Through   Memory's  chambers   deep  with- 
drawn 
Kenew  its  iterations  faint. 

So  nigh  !  yet  from  remotest  years 

It  summons  back  its  magic,  rife  5o 

With  longings  unappeased,  and  tears 
Drawn  from  the  very  source  of  life. 

1881.  1881. 


TO  WHITTIER 

ON   HIS    SEVENTY-FIFTH   BIRTHDAY 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  poet,  rich  in  love  as  years, 
Her  hills  and  valleys  praise  thee,  her  swift 

brooks 
Dance  in  thy  verse;  to  her  grave  sylvan 

nooks 
Thy  steps  allure  us,  which  the  wood-thrush 

hears 

As  maids  their  lovers',  and  no  treason  fears; 
Through   thee    her   Merrimacs  and  Agio- 

chooks 


And  many  a  name  uncouth  win  gracious 

looks, 
Sweetly  familiar  to  both  Englands'  ears: 

Peaceful  by  birthright  as  a  virgin  lake, 
The  lily's  anchorage,  which  no  eyes  behold 
Save  those  of  stars,  yet  for  thy  brother's 

sake 
That  lay  in  bonds,  thou  blewst  a  blast  as 

bold 
As  that  wherewith   the   heart   of   Roland 

brake, 
Far  heard  across  the  New  World  and  the 

Old. 
1882.  1882. 

TO  HOLMES 

ON    HIS   SEVENTY-FIFTH    BIRTHDAY 

DEAR  Wendell,  why  need  count  the  years 
Since  first  your  genius  made  me  thrill, 

If  what  moved  then  to  smiles  or  tears, 
Or  both  contending,  move  me  still  ? 

What  has  the  Calendar  to  do 

With  poets  ?  What  Time's  fruitless  tooth 
With  gay  immortals  such  as  you 

Whose  year^  but  emphasize  your  youth  ? 

One  air  gave  both  their  lease  of  breath ; 

The  same  paths  lured  our  boyish  feet;    10 
One  earth  will  hold  us  safe  in  death 

With  dust  of  saints  and  scholars  sweet. 

Our  legends  from  one  source  were  drawn, 
I  scarce  distinguish  yours,  from  mine, 

And  don't  we  make  the  Gentiles  yawn 
With  '  You  remembers  ? '  o'er  our  wine  ! 

If  I,  with  too  senescent  air, 

Invade  your  elder  memory's  pale, 

You  snub  me  with  a  pitying  '  Where 

Were  you  in  the  September  Gale  ?  '      x 

Both  stared  entranced  at  Lafayette, 
Saw  Jackson  dubbed  with  LL.  D. 

What  Cambridge  saw  not  strikes  us  yet 
As  scarcely  worth  one's  while  to  see. 

Ten  years  my  senior,  when  my  name 
In  Harvard's  entrance-book  was  writ, 

Her  halls  still  echoed  with  the  fame 
Of  you,  her  poet  and  her  wit. 


524 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


'T  is  fifty  years  from  then  to  now : 

But  your  Last  Leaf  renews  its  green,    3o 

Though,  for  the  laurels  on  your  brow 
(So  thick  they  crowd),  't  is  hardly  seen. 

The  oriole's  fledglings  fifty  times    . 

Have  flown  from  our  familiar  elms; 
As  many  poets  with  their  rhymes 

Oblivion's  darkling  dust  o'erwhelms. 

The  birds  are  hushed,  the  poets  gone 
Where  no  harsh  critic's  lash  can  reach, 

And  still  your  winged  brood  sing  on 

To  all  who  love  our  English  speech.  4o 

Nay,  let  the  foolish  records  be 

That  make  believe  you  're  seventy-five : 
You  're  the  old  Wendell  still  to  me,— 

And  that 's  the  youngest  man  alive. 

The  gray-blue  eyes,  I  see  them  still, 
The  gallant  front  with  brown  o'erhung, 

The  shape  alert,  the  wit  at  will, 

The  phrase  that  stuck,  but  never  stung. 

You  keep  your  youth  as  you  Scotch  firs, 
Whose  gaunt  line  my  horizon  hems,      50 

Though  twilight  all  the  lowland  blurs, 
Hold  sunset  in  their  ruddy  stems. 

You  with  the  elders  ?    Yes,  't  is  true, 

But  in  no  sadly  literal  sense, 
With  elders  and  coevals  too, 

Whose  verb  admits  no  preterite  tense. 

Master  alike  in  speech  and  song 
Of  fame's  great  antiseptic  —  Style, 

You  with  the  classic  few  belong 

Who  tempered  wisdom  with  a  smile.  60 

Outlive  us  all !  Who  else  like  you 

Could  sift  the  seedcorn  from  our  chaff, 

And  make  us  with  the  pen  we  knew 
Deathless  at  least  in  epitaph  ? 


INTERNATIONAL  COPYRIGHT 

IN  vain  we  call  old  notions  fudge, 

And  bend  our  conscience  to  our  deal- 
ing; 

The  Ten  Commandments  will  not  budge, 
And  stealing  will  continue  stealing. 

1885.  1886. 


SIXTY-EIGHTH     BIRTHDAY 

As  life  runs  on,  the  road  grows  strange 
With  faces  new,  and  near  the  end 
The  milestones  into  headstones  change, 
'Neath  every  one  a  friend. 


INSCRIPTION 

PROPOSED  FOR  A  SOLDIERS'  AND 
SAILORS'  MONUMENT  IN  BOSTON 

To   those  who  died  for   her   on  land  and 

sea, 
That  she  might  have  a  country  great  and 

free, 

Boston  builds  this:  build  ye  her  monument 
In  lives   like   theirs,   at   duty's   summons 

spent. 

1887. 


ENDYMION1 

A    MYSTICAL   COMMENT   ON   TITIAN'S 
'SACRED    AND   PROFANE    LOVE* 


MY  day  began  not  till  the  twilight  fell, 
And,   lo,  in  ether  from  heaven's  sweetest 

well, 

The  New  Moon  swam  divinely  isolate 
In  maiden  silence,  she  that  makes  my  fate 
Haply  not  knowing  it,  or  only  so 
As  I  the  secrets  of  my  sheep  may  know; 
Nor  ask  I  more,  entirely  blest  if  she, 
In  letting  me  adore,  ennoble  me 
To  height  of  what  the  Gods  meant  making 

man, 

As  only  she  and  her  best  beauty  can.         10 
Mine  be  the  love  that  in  itself  can  find 
Seed  of  white  thoughts,  the  lilies  of  the 

mind, 

Seed  of  that  glad  surrender  of  the  will 
That   finds   in  service  self's   true  purpose 

still; 

Love  that  in  outward  fairness  sees  the  tent 
Pitched  for  an  inmate  far  more  excellent; 
Love  with  a  light  irradiate  to  the  core, 
Lit  at  her  lamp,  but  fed  from  inborn  store; 

i  See  Scudder'B  Life  of  Jewell,  vol.  ii,  pp.  371,  372, 
and  also  two  letters  from  Lowell  to  Mr.  Garrison,  on 
'  Endymion,'  quoted  in  Greenslet's  Lowell^  pp.  217, 218. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


S2S 


Love  thrice-requited  with  the  single  joy    19 
Of  an  immaculate  vision  naught  could  cloy, 
Dearer  because,  so  high  beyond  my  scope, 
My  life  grew  rich  with  her,  unbribed  by 

hope 

Of  other  guerdon  save  to  think  she  knew 
One  grateful  votary  paid  her  all  her  due ; 
Happy  if  she,  high-radiant  there,  resigned 
To  his  sure  trust  her  image  in  his  mind. 
O    fairer   even   than   Peace   is  when   she 

comes 
Hushing    War's    tumult,    and    retreating 

drums 

Fade  to  a  murmur  like  the  sough  of  bees 
Hidden  among  the  noon-stilled  linden-trees, 
Bringer  of  quiet,  thou  that  canst  allay       31 
The  dust  and  din  and  travail  of  the  day, 
Strewer  of  Silence,  Giver  of  the  dew 
That  doth  our  pastures  and  our  souls  re- 
new, 

Still  dwell  remote,  still  on  thy  shoreless  sea 
Float  unattained  in  silent  empery, 
Still   light   my   thoughts,   nor    listen  to  a 

prayer 
Would  make  thee  less  imperishably  fair  ! 


Can,  then,  my  twofold  nature  find  content 
In  vain  conceits  of  airy  blandishment  ?     4o 
Ask  I  no  more  ?   Since  yesterday  I  task 
My  storm-strewn  thoughts  to  tell  me  what 

I  ask: 

Faint  premonitions  of  mutation  strange 
Steal  o'er  my  perfect  orb,  and,  with  the 

change, 
Myself   am  changed;    the    shadow   of   my 

earth 

Darkens  the  disk  of  that  celestial  worth 
Which  only  yesterday  could  still  suffice 
Upwards  to  waft  my  thoughts  in  sacrifice; 
My   heightened    fancy     with    its   touches 

warm 

Moulds  to  a  woman's  that   ideal  form;      50 
Nor  yet  a  woman's  wholly,  but  divine 
With  awe  her  purer  essence  bred  in  mine. 
Was  it  long  brooding  on  their  own  surmise, 
Which,  of  the  eyes  engendered,  fools  the 

eyes, 

Or  have  I  seen  through  that  translucent  air 
A  Presence  shaped  in  its  seclusions  bare, 
My  Goddess  looking  on  me  from  above 
As  look  our  russet  maidens  when  they  love, 
But  high-uplifted  o'er  our  human  heat 
And  passion-paths  too  rough  for  her  pearl 

feet  ?  60 


Slowly  the  Shape  took  outline  as  I  gazed 
At  her  full-orbed  or  crescent,  till,  bedazed 
With   wonder-working   light    that    subtly 

wrought 
My   brain   to   its  own  substance,  steeping 

thought 

In  trances  such  as  poppies  give,  I  saw 
Things  shut  from  vision   by  sight's  sober 

law, 

Amorphous,  changeful,  but  defined  at  last 
Into  the  peerless  Shape  mine  eyes  hold  fast. 
This,  too,  at  first  I  worshipt:  soon,  like 

wine, 
Her  eyes,  in  mine  poured,  frenzy-philtred 

mine ;  70 

Passion  put  Worship's  priestly  raiment  on 
And  to  the  woman  knelt,  the  Goddess  gone. 
Was  I,  then,  more  than  mortal  made  ?  or 

she 
Less  than  divine  that  she  might  mate  with 

me? 

If  mortal  merely,  could  my  nature  cope 
With  such  o'ermastery  of  maddening  hope  ? 
If  Goddess,  could  she  feel  the  blissful  woe 
That  women  in  their  self-surrender  know  ? 


Long  she  abode  aloof  there  in  her  heaven, 
Far  as  the  grape-bunch  of  the  Pleiad  seven 
Beyond   my   madness'   utmost    leap ;    but 
here  81 

Mine  eyes  have  feigned  of  late  her  rapture 

near, 

Moulded  of  mind-mist  that  broad  day  dis- 
pels, 

Here  in  these  shadowy  woods  and  brook- 
lulled  dells. 

Have  no  heaven-habitants  e'er  felt  a  void 
In  hearts  sublimed  with  ichor  unalloyed  ? 
E'er  longed  to  mingle  with  a  mortal  fate 
Intense  with  pathos  of  its  briefer  date  ? 
Could   she   partake,  and  live,   our   human 


Even  with  the  thought  there  tingles  through 
my  veins  9o 

Sense  of  unwarned  renewal;  I,  the  dead, 
Receive  and  house  again  the  ardor  fled, 
As  once  Alcestis;  to  the  ruddy  brim 
Feel  masculine  virtue  flooding  every  limb, 
And  life,  like  Spring  returning,  brings  the 

key 

That  sets  my  senses  from  their  winter  free, 
Dancing   like   naked   fauns    too   glad   foi 
shame. 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Her  passion,  purified  to  palest  flame, 
Can  it  thus  kindle  ?   Is  her  purpose  this  ? 
I  will  not  argue,  lest  I  lose  a  bliss  100 

That  makes  me  dream  Tithonus'  fortune 

mine 

(Or  what  of  it  was  palpably  divine 
Ere  came  the  fruitlessly  immortal  gift) ; 
I  cannot  curb  my  hope's  imperious  drift 
That  wings  with  fire  my  dull  mortality; 
Though  fancy-forged,  't  is  all  I  feel  or  see. 


My  Goddess  sinks;  round  Latmos'  darken- 
ing brow 

Trembles  the  parting  of  her  presence  now, 
Faint  as  the  perfume  left  upon  the  grass 
By  her  limbs'  pressure  or  her  feet  that 

pass  no 

By  me  conjectured,  but  conjectured  so 
As  things  I  touch   far   fainter   substance 

show. 

Was  it  mine  eyes'  imposture  I  have  seen 
Flit  with  the  moonbeams  on  from  shade  to 

sheen 
Through  the  wood-openings  ?    Nay,  I  see 

her  now 
Out  of  her  heaven  new-lighted,  from  her 

brow 
The  hair  breeze-scattered,  like  loose  mists 

that  blow 

Across  her  crescent,  goldening  as  they  go 
High-kirtled  for  the  chase,  and  what  was 

shown, 

Of   maiden   rondure,   like   the   rose   half- 
blown.  120 
If  dream,  turn  real !    If  a  vision,  stay  ! 
Take  mortal  shape,  my  philtre's  spell  obey  ! 
If  hags  compel  thee  from  thy  secret  sky 
With  gruesome  incantations,  why  not  I, 
Whose  only  magic  is  that  I  distil 
A  potion,   blent  of   passion,  thought,  and 

will, 
Deeper   in   reach,  in   force    of   fate  more 

rich, 
Than  e'er  was  juice  wrung  by  Thessalian 

witch 
From    moon-enchanted    herbs,  —  a   potion 

brewed 

Of  my  best  life  in  each  diviner  mood  ?    130 
Myself  the  elixir  am,  myself  the  bowl 
Seething  and  mantling  with  my  soul  of  soul. 
Taste  and  be  humanized:  what  though  the 

cup, 
With  thy  lips  frenzied,  shatter  ?   Drink  it 

up! 


If  but  these  arms  may  clasp,  o'erquited  so, 
My  world,  thy  heaven,  all  life  means    I 
shall  know. 


Sure  she  hath  heard  my  prayer  and  granted 

half, 

As  Gods  do  who  at  mortal  madness  laugh. 
Yet  if  life's  solid  things  illusion  seem, 
Why  may  not  substance  wear  the  mask  of 

dream  ?  M0 

In    sleep    she    comes;   she    visits    me    in 

dreams, 

And,  as  her  image  in  a  thousand  streams, 
So  in  my  veins,  that  her  obey,  she  sees, 
Floating  and  flaming  there,  her  images 
Bear  to  my  little  world's  remotest  zone 
Glad  messages  of  her,  and  her  alone. 
With  silence-sandalled  Sleep  she  comes  to 

me 
(But   softer-footed,  sweeter-browed,   than 

she), 

In  motion  gracious  as  a  seagull's  wing, 
And  all  her  bright  limbs,  moving,  seem  to 

sing.  150 

Let  me  believe  so,  then,  if  so  I  may 
With  the  night's  bounty  feed  my  beggared 

day. 

In  dreams  I  see  her  lay  the  goddess  down 
With  bow  and  quiver,  and  her   crescent- 
crown 

Flicker  and  fade  away  to  dull  eclipse 
As  down  to  mine  she  deigns  her  longed-for 

lips; 

And  as  her  neck  my  happy  arms  enfold, 
Flooded  and  lustred  with  her  loosened  gold, 
She  whispers  words  each  sweeter  than  a 

kiss: 
Then,  wakened  with  the  shock  of  sudden 

bliss,  160 

My  arms  are  empty,  my  awakener  fled, 
And,  silent  in  the  silent  sky  o'erhead, 
But    coldly   as    on    ice-plated    snow,   she 

gleams, 
Herself  the  mother  and  the  child  of  dreams. 


Gone  is  the  time  when  phantasms   could 

appease 
My  quest  phantasmal  and   bring  cheated 

ease; 

"When,  if  she  glorified  my  dreams,  I  felt 
Through  all  my  limbs  a  change  immortal 

melt 
At  touch  of  hers  illuminate  with  soul. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


527 


Not  long  could  I  be   stilled  with  Fancy's 

dole;  170 

Too  soon  the  mortal  mixture  in  me  caught 

Red   fire    from   her    celestial   flame,  and 

fought 

For  tyrannous  control  in  all  my  veins: 
My  fool's  prayer  was  accepted;  what  re- 
mains ? 

Or  was  it  some  eidolon  merely,  sent 
By  her  who  rules  the  shades  in  banishment, 
To  mock  me  with  her  semblance  ?    Were 

it  thus, 

How  'scape  I  shame,  whose  will  was  trai- 
torous ? 

What  shall  compensate  an  ideal  dimmed  ? 
How  blanch  again  my  statue  virgin-limbed, 
Soiled  with  the  incense-smoke  her  chosen 
priest  181 

Poured  more  profusely  as  within  decreased 
The  fire  unearthly,  fed  with  coals  from  far 
Within  the  soul's  shrine  ?  Could  my  fallen 

star 

Be  set  in  heaven  again  by  prayers  and  tears 
And  quenchless  sacrifice  of  all  my  years, 
How  would  the  victim  to  the  flamen  leap, 
And  life  for  life's  redemption   paid   hold 
cheap  ! 

But  what  resource  when  she  herself  de- 
scends 

From  her  blue  throne,  and  o'er  her  vassal 
bends  t9o 

That  shape  thrice-deified  by  love,  those  eyes 

Wherein  the  Lethe  of  all  others  lies  ? 

When  my  white  queen  of  heaven's  remote- 
ness tires, 

Herself  against  her  other  self  conspires, 

Takes  woman's  nature,  walks  in  mortal 
ways, 

And  finds  in  my  remorse  her  beauty's 
praise  ? 

Yet  all  would  I  renounce  to  dream  again 

The  dream  in  dreams  fulfilled  that  made 
my  pain, 

My  noble  pain  that  heightened  all  my  years 

With  crowns  to  win  and  prowess-breeding 
tears ;  200 

Nay,  would  that  dream  renounce  once  more 
to  see 

Her  from  her  sky  there  looking  down  at  me  ! 

VII 

Goddess,  reclimb  thy  heaven,  and  be  once 

more 
An  inaccessible  splendor  to  adore, 


A  faith,  a  hope  of  such  transcendent  worth 
As  bred  ennobling  discontent  with  earth; 
Give  back   the   longing,   back   the   elated 

mood 
That,  fed  with  thee,  spurned  every  meaner 

good; 

Give  even  the  spur  of  impotent  despair 
That,  without  hope,  still  bade  aspire  and 

dare;  210 

Give  back  the  need  to  worship,  that  still 

pours 
Down  to  the  soul  the  virtue  it  adores  ! 

Nay,  brightest  and  most  beautiful,  deem 
naught 

These  frantic  words,  the  reckless  wind  of 
thought: 

Still  stoop,  still  grant,  —  I  live  but  in  tlrv 
will; 

Be  what  thou  wilt,  but  be  a  woman  still ! 

Vainly  I  cried,  nor  could  myself  believe 

That  what  I  prayed  for  I  would  fain  re- 
ceive. 

My  moon  is  set;  my  vision  set  with  her; 

No  more  can  worship  vain  my  pulses  stir. 

Goddess  Triform,  I  own  thy  triple  spell,  221 

My  heaven's  queen,  —  queen,  too,  of  my 
earth  and  hell ! 

1887.  i  1888. 


AUSPEX 

MY  heart,  I  cannot  still  it, 
Nest  that  had  song-birds  in  it; 
And  when  the  last  shall  go, 
The  dreary  days,  to  fill  it, 
Instead  of  lark  or  linnet, 
Shall  whirl  dead  leaves  and  snow. 

Had  they  been  swallows  only, 
Without  the  passion  stronger 
That  skyward  longs  and  sings,  — 
Woe  's  me,  I  shall  be  lonely 
When  I  can  feel  no  longer 
The  impatience  of  then?  wings  ! 

A  moment,  sweet  delusion, 

Like  birds  the  brown  leaves  hover; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Before  the  wild  confusion 

Fall  wavering  down  to  cover 

The  poet  and  his  song. 

(18884 
Parts  of  the  poem  were  written  much  earlier. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


THE  PREGNANT  COMMENT 

OPENING  one  day  a  book  of  mine, 
I  absent,  Hester  found  a  line 
Praised  with  a  pencil-mark,  and  this 
She  left  transfigured  with  a  kiss. 

When  next  upon  the  page  I  chance, 
Like  Poussin's  nymphs  my  pulses  dance, 
And  whirl  my  fancy  where  it  sees 
Pan  piping  'neath  Arcadian  trees, 
Whose  leaves  no  winter-scenes  rehearse, 
Still  young  and  glad  as  Homer's  verse. 
'  What  mean,'  I  ask,  '  these  sudden  joys  ? 
This  feeling  fresher  than  a  boy's  ? 
What  makes  this  line,  familiar  long, 
New  as  the  first  bird's  April  song  ? 
I  could,  with  sense  illumined  thus, 
Clear  doubtful  texts  in  ^Eschylus  ! ' 

Laughing,  one  day  she  gave  the  key, 
My  riddle's  open-sesame; 
Then  added,  with  a  smile  demure, 
Whose  downcast  lids  veiled  triumph  sure, 
'  If  what  I  left  there  give  you  pain, 
You  —  you  —  can  take  it  off  again ; 
'T  was  for  my  poet,  not  for  him, 
Your  Doctor  Donne  there  ! ' 

Earth  grew  dim 
And  wavered  in  a  golden  mist, 
As  rose,  not  paper,  leaves  I  kissed. 
Donne,  you  forgive  ?   I  let  you  keep 
Her  precious  comment,  poet  deep. 

(1888.) 

TELEPATHY 

«  AND  how  could  you  dream  of  meeting  ? ' 
Nay,  how  can  you  ask  me,  sweet  ? 

All  day  my  pulse  had  been  beating 
The  tune  of  your  coming  feet. 

And  as  nearer  and  ever  nearer 
I  felt  the  throb  of  your  tread, 

To  be  in  the  world  grew  dearer, 
And  my  blood  ran  rosier  red. 

Love  called,  and  I  could  not  linger, 
But  sought  the  forbidden  tryst, 

As  music  follows  the  finger 
Of  the  dreaming  lutanist. 

And  though  you  had  said  it  and  said  it, 
'  We  must  not  be  happy  to-day,' 


Was  I  not  wiser  to  credit 

The  fire  in  my  feet  than  your  Nay  ? 

(1888.) 


THE   SECRET 

I  HAVE  a  fancy:  how  shall  I  bring  it 
Home  to  all  mortals  wherever  they  be  ? 
Say  it  or  sing  it  ?     Shoe  it  or  wing  it, 
So  it  may  outrun  or  outfly  ME, 
Merest  cocoon- web  whence  it  broke  free  ? 

Only  one  secret  can  save  from  disaster, 
Only  one  magic  is  that  of  the  Master: 
Set  it  to  music ;  give  it  a  tune,  — 
Tune  the  brook  sings  you,  tune  the  breeze 

brings  you, 
Tune  the  wild  columbines  nod  to  in  June  ! 

This  is  the  secret:  so  simple,  you  see  ! 

Easy  as  loving,  easy  as  kissing, 

Easy  as  —  well,  let  me  ponder  —  as  miss* 

ing, 

Known,  since  the  world  was,  by  scarce  two 
or  three. 


MONNA   LISA 

SHE  gave  me  all  that  woman  can, 
Nor  her  soul's  nunnery  forego, 
A  confidence  that  man  to  man 
Without  remorse  can  never  show. 

Rare  art,  that  can  the  sense  refine 
Till  not  a  pulse  rebellious  stirs, 
And,  since  she  never  can  be  mine, 
Makes  it  seem  sweeter  to  be  hers  ! 


(1888.) 


THE   NOBLER   LOVER 

IF  he  be  a  nobler  lover,  take  him  ! 

You  in  you  I  seek,  and  not  myself; 
Love  with  men  's  what  women  choose  to 
make  him, 

Seraph  strong  to  soar,  or  fawn-eyed  elf: 
All  I  am  or  can,  your  beauty  gave  it, 

Lifting  me  a  moment  nigh  to  you, 
And  my  bit  of  heaven,  I  fain  would  save 
it  — 

Mine  I  thought  it  was,  I  never  knew. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


529 


What   you  take    of   me  is  yours  to  serve 

Jou» 

All  I  give,  you  gave  to  me  before; 
Let  him  win  you  !     If  I  but  deserve  you, 
I  keep  all  vou  grant  to  him  and  more: 
You  shall  make  me  dare  what  others  dare 

not, 

You  shall  keep  my  nature  pure  as  snow, 
And  a  light   from  you  that  others  share 

not 
Shall  transfigure  me  where'er  I  go. 

Let  me  be  your  thrall !     However  lowly 

Be  the  bondsman's  service  I  can  do, 
Loyalty  shall  make  it  high  and  holy ; 

Naught  can  be  unworthy,  done  for  you. 
Men  shall  say,  '  A  lover  of  this  fashion 

Such  an  icy  mistress  well  beseems.' 
Women  say,  '  Could  we  deserve  such  pas- 
sion, 

We  might  be  the  marvel  that  he  dreams.' 
(1895.) 


'FRANCISCUS     DE     VERULAMIO 
SIC   COGITAVIT' 

THAT'S   a  rather  bold   speech,  my  Lord 

Bacon, 

For,  indeed,  is  't  so  easy  to  know 
Just    how    much   we    from    others    have 

taken, 
And  how  much  our  own  natural  flow  ? 

Since  your   mind  bubbled  up  at  its  foun- 
tain, 

How  many  streams  made  it  elate, 
While    it   calmed   to   the   plain  from   the 

mountain, 
As  every  mind  must  that  grows  great  ? 

While  you  thought  't  was  You  thinking  as 

newly 

As  Adam  still  wet  with  God's  dew,        10 
Yoii  forgot  in  your  self-pride  that  truly 
The   whole  Past   was  thinking  through 
you. 

Greece,  Rome,  nay,   your    namesake,   old 

Roger, 
With    Truth's    nameless    delvers    who 

wrought 
In  the  dark  mines  of  Truth,  helped  to  prod 

your 
Fine  brain  with  the  goad  of  their  thought. 


As  mummy  was  prized  for  a  rich  hue 

The  painter  no  elsewhere  could  find, 
So  't  was  buried  men's  thinking  with  which 

you 

Gave    the    ripe    mellow   tone    to   your 
mind.  20 

I  heard  the  proud  strawberry  saying, 
'  Only  look  what  a  ruby  I  've  made  ! ' 

It  forgot  how  the  bees  in  their  maying 
Had  brought  it  the  stuff  for  its  trade. 

And  yet  there  's  the  half  of  a  truth  in  it, 
And  my  Lord  might  his  copyright  sue ; 

For  a  thought 's  his  who  kindles  new  youth 

in  it, 
Or  so  puts  it  as  makes  it  more  true. 

The  birds  but  repeat  without  ending 

The  same  old  traditional  notes,  3o 

Which  some,  by  more  happily  blending, 
Seem  to  make  over  new  in  their  throats; 

And  we  men  through  our  old  bit  of  song 
run, 

Until  one  just  improves  on  the  rest, 
And  we  call  a  thing  his,  in  the  long  run, 

Who  utters  it  clearest  and  best. 


IN  A  COPY  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

THESE  pearls  of  thought  in  Persian  gulfs 

were  bred, 

Each  softly  lucent  as  a  rounded  moon ; 
The  diver  Omar  plucked  them  from  their 

bed, 
Fitzgerald    strung    them    on    an   English 

thread. 

Fit  rosary  for  a  queen,  in  shape  and  hue, 
When   Contemplation    tells    her    pensive 

beads 

Of  mortal  thoughts,  forever  old  and  new. 
Fit  for  a   queen  ?     Why,  surely  then  for 

you  ! 

The  moral  ?     Where  Doubt's  eddies  toss 

and  twirl 

Faith's  slender  shallop  till  her  footing  reel, 
Plunge:  if  you  find  not  peace  beneath  the 

whirl, 
Groping,  you  may  like  Omar  grasp  a  pearl. 


53° 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


TURNER'S  OLD   TEMERAIRE 

UNDER      A      FIGURE     SYMBOLIZING     THE 
CHURCH 

THOU  wast  the  fairest  of    all  man-made 

things; 
The  breath  of  heaven  bore  up  thy  cloudy 

wings, 

And,  patient  in  their  triple  rank, 
The  thunders  crouched  about  thy  flank, 
Their  black  lips  silent  with  the  doom  of 

kings. 

The  storm-wind  loved  to  rock  him  in  thy 

pines, 
And  swell  thy  vans  with  breath  of  great 


Long-wildered  pilgrims  of  the  main 

By  thee  relaid  their  course  again, 

Whose  prow  was  guided  by  celestial  signs. 

How  didst  thou  trample  on  tumultuous 
seas, 

Or,  like  some  basking  sea-beast  stretched 
at  ease, 

Let  the  bull-fronted  surges  glide 

Caressingly  along  thy  side, 

Like  glad  hounds  leaping  by  the  hunts- 
man's knees  ! 

Heroic  feet,  with  fire  of  genius  shod, 
In  battle's  ecstasy  thy  deck  have  trod, 
While  from  their  touch  a  fulgor  ran 
Through  plank  and  spar,  from  man  to  man, 
Welding  thee  to  a  thunderbolt  of  God.    20 

Now   a   black    demon,  belching    fire    and 

steam, 
Drags    thee    away,    a    pale,    dismantled 

dream, 

And  all  thy  desecrated  hulk 
Must  landlocked  lie,  a  helpless  bulk, 
To  gather  weeds  in  the  regardless  stream. 

Woe  's  me,  from  Ocean's  sky-horizoned  air 
To  this  !    Better,  the  flame-cross  still  aflare, 
Shot- shattered  to  have  met  thy  doom 
Where    thy   last    lightnings    cheered    the 

gloom, 
Than  here  be  safe  in  dangerless  despair.  3o 

Thy     drooping    symbol    to    the    flagstaff 

clings, 
Thy  rudder  soothes  the  tide  to  lazy  rings, 


Thy  thunders  now  but  birthdays  greet, 
Thy  planks  forget  the  martyrs'  feet, 
Thy  masts   what  challenges  the   sea-wind 
brings. 

Thou    a    mere    hospital,     where     human 

wrecks, 
Like    winter-flies,   crawl  those    renowned 

decks, 

Ne'er  trodden  save  by  captive  foes, 
And  wonted  sternly  to  impose 
God's  will  and    thine    on   bowed  imperial 

necks  !  40 

Shall  nevermore,  engendered  of  thy  fame, 
A  new  sea-eagle  heir  thy  conqueror  name, 
And  with  commissioned  talons  wrench 
From  thy  supplanter's  grimy  clench 
His   sheath  of  steel,  his    wings  of  smoke 
and  flame  ? 

This  shall  the  pleased  eyes  of  our  children 

see; 
For    this  the  stars  of  God  long   even  as 

we; 

Earth  listens  for  his  wings  ;  the  Fates 
Expectant  lean;  Faith  cross-propt  waits, 
And  the  tired  waves  of  Thought's  insur- 

gent sea.  50 

1888. 

ON  A  BUST  OF  GENERAL 
GRANT* 

STRONG,  simple,  silent  are  the  [steadfast] 

laws 

That  sway  this  universe,  of  none  withstood, 
Unconscious  of  man's  outcries  or  applause, 
Or  what  man  deems  his  evil  or  his  good; 
This  poem  is  the  last,  so  far  as  is  known,  written  by 


Mr.  Lowell.  He  laid  it  aside  f 
of  the  verses  incomplete.  I 
the  poem  the  first  verse  appear 
Strong,  eiraple,  silent,  such 
In  the  final  copy,  from  which  t 
the  verse  originally  stood  :  — 


r  revision,  leaving  two 
pencilled  fragment  of 
as  follows  :  — 
re  Nature's  Laws. 
e  poem  is  now  printed, 


Strong,  steadfast,  silent  are  the 


laws. 


but  '  steadfast  '  is  crossed  out,  and  '  simple  '  written 
above. 

A  similar  change  is  made  in  the  ninth  verse  of  the 
stanza,  where  '  eimpleness  '  is  substituted  for  '  stead- 
fastness.' The  change  from  '  steadfast  '  to  '  simple 
was  not  made,  probably  through  oversight,  in  the  first 
verse  of  the  second  stanza.  There  is  nothing  to  indi- 
cate what  epithet  Mr.  Lowell  would  have  chosen  to 
complete  the  first  verse  of  the  third  stanza.  (Note  by 
Professor  C.  E.  Norton,  in  Last  Poems  of  Jamet  Rus- 
sell Lowell.) 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


S3' 


And  when  the  Fates  ally  them  with  a  cause 
That  wallows  in  the  sea-trough  and  seems 

lost, 

Drifting  in  danger  of  the  reefs  and  sands 
Of   shallow  counsels,  this  way,  that  way, 

tost, . 
Strength,  silence,  simpleness,  of  these  three 

strands 
They  twist  the  cable  shall  the  world  hold 

fast  10 

To  where  its  anchors  clutch  the  bed-rock 

of  the  Past. 

Strong,  simple,  silent,  therefore  such  was 

he 

Who  helped  us  in  our  need;  the  eternal  law 
That  who  can  saddle  Opportunity 
Is  God's  elect,  though  many  a  mortal  flaw 
May  minish  him  in  eyes  that  closely  see, 
Was  verified  in  him:  what  need  we  say 
Of   one  who   made    success  where   others 

failed, 
Who,  with  no  light  save  that  of  common 

day, 

Struck  hard,  and  still  struck  on  till  For- 
tune quailed,  20 
But  that  (so  sift  the  Norns)  a  desperate 

van 
Ne'er  fell  at  last  to  one  who  was  not  wholly 


A  face  all  prose  where  Time's  [benignant] 

haze 

Softens  no  raw  edge  yet,  nor  makes  all  fair 
With  the  beguiling  light  of  vanished  days; 
This  is  relentless  granite,  bleak  and  bare, 
Roughhewn,    and    scornful     of     aesthetic 

phrase ; 
Nothing   is   here   for    fancy,   nought    for 


The  Present's  hard  uncompromising  light 
Accents    all    vulgar    outlines,   flaws,   and 


Yet  vindicates  some  pristine  natural  right 
O'ertopping  that  hereditary  grace 
Which  marks  the  gain  or  loss  of  some  time- 
fondled  race. 

So   Marius   looked,  methinks,  and   Crom- 
well so, 

Not  in  the  piirple  born,  to  those  they  led 
Nearer  for  that  and  costlier  to  the  foe, 
New    moulders   of   old   forms,  by  nature 
bred  ' 


The  exhaustless  life  of  manhood's  seeds  to 

show, 
Let   but   the   ploughshare    of    portentous 

times 
Strike  deep  enough  to  reach  them  where 

they  lie:  40 

Despair    and   danger   are   their   fostering 

climes, 
And  their  best  sun  bursts  from  a  stormy 

sky: 

He  was  our  man  of  men,  nor  would  abate 
The  utmost  due  manhood  could  claim  of 

fate. 

Nothing  ideal,  a  plain-people's  man 

At  the   first    glance,   a    more    deliberate 

ken 
Finds  type  primeval,  theirs  in  whose  veins 

ran 
Such  blood  as  quelled   the   dragon  in  his 

den, 
Made  harmless   fields,  and    better  worlds 


He   came   grim-silent,   saw   and    did    the 

deed  50 

That  was  to  do;  hi  his  master-grip 
Our  sword  flashed  joy;  no  skill  of  words 

could  breed 
Such  sure  conviction  as  that  close-clamped 

lip; 
He   slew   our  dragon,  nor,  so   seemed   it, 

knew 
He  had  done  more  than  any  simplest  man 

might  do. 

Yet  did  this  man,  war-tempered,  stern  as 

steel 
Where  steel   opposed,  prove   soft  in  civil 

sway; 
The  hand   hilt-hardened   had   lost  tact  to 

feel 
The  world's  base  coin,  and  glozing  knaves 

made  prey 

Of   him   and   of   the    entrusted   Common- 
weal; 6c 
So  Truth  insists  and  will  not  be  denied. 
We    turn    our    eyes    away,   and    so   will 

Fame, 

As  if  in  his  last  battle  he  had  died 
Victor  for  us  and  spotless  of  all  blame, 
Doer  of  hopeless  tasks  which  praters  shirk 
One  of  those   still  plain  men  that  do  the 

world's  rough  work. 
1891.  1892. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


[The  selections  f 
ized  publish 


Whitman  are  printed  by  the  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.,  the  author- 
of  his  works ;  and  of  Messrs.  Horace  L.  Traubel  and  Thomas  B.  Harned,  his  literary  executors.] 


THERE   WAS    A   CHILD    WENT 
FORTH i 

THERE    was    a    child    went    forth    every 

day, 
And  the  first  object  he  look'd  upon,  that 

object  he  became, 
And  that  object  became  part  of  him  for  the 

day  or  a  certain  part  of  the  day, 
Or  for  many  years  or  stretching  cycles  of 

years. 

The  early  lilacs  became  part  of  this  child, 
And   grass   and   white   and   red  morning- 
glories,  and  white  and  red  clover,  and  the 

song  of  the  phcebe-bird, 
And  the  Third-month  lambs  and  the  sow's 

pink-faint  litter,  and  the  mare's  foal  and 

the  cow's  calf, 
And  the  noisy  brood  of  the  barnyard  or  by 

the  mire  of  the  pond-side, 
And   the   fish    suspending    themselves   so 

curiously  below  there,  and  the  beautiful 

curious  liquid, 
And  the  water-plants  with  their  graceful 

flat  heads,  all  became  part  of  him.         10 

The  field-sprouts  of  Fourth-month  and 
Fifth-month  became  part  of  him, 

Winter-grain  sprouts  and  those  of  the 
light-yellow  corn,  and  the  esculent  roots 
of  the  garden, 

And  the  apple-trees  cover'd  with  blossoms 
and  the  fruit  afterward,  and  wood-ber- 
ries, and  the  commonest  weeds  by  the 
road, 

And  the  old  drunkard  staggering  home  from 
the  outhouse  of  the  tavern  whence  he 
had  lately  risen, 

And  the  schoolmistress  that  pass'd  on  her 
way  to  the  school, 

1  In  the  first  edition,  1855,  without  title.  In  the 
second  edition,  1856,  called  '  Poem  of  The  Child  That 
Went  Forth  and  Always  Goes  Forth  Forever  and  For- 
ever.' 


And  the  friendly  boys  that  pass'd,  and  the 

quarrelsome  boys, 
And  the  tidy  and  fresh-cheek'd  girls,  and 

the  barefoot  negro  boy  and  girl, 
And  all  the  changes  of  city  and  country 

wherever  he  went. 
His  own  parents,  he  that  had  father'd  him 

and  she  that  had  conceiv'd  him  in  her 

womb  and  birth'd  him, 
They  gave  this  child  more  of  themselves 

than  that,  2o 

They  gave  him  afterward  every  day,  they 

became  part  of  him. 

The  mother  at  home  quietly  placing  the 

dishes  on  the  supper-table, 
The  mother  with  mild  words,  clean  her  cap 

and  gown,  a  wholesome  odor  falling  off 

her  person  and  clothes  as  she  walks  by, 
The   father,  strong,  self-sufficient,   manly, 

mean,  anger'd,  unjust, 
The  blow,  the  quick  loud  word,  the  tight 

bargain,  the  crafty  lure, 
The  family  usages,  the  language,  the  com- 
pany,  the   furniture,  the   yearning   and 

swelling  heart, 
Affection   that   will  not  be  gainsay'd,  the 

sense  of  what  is  real,  the  thought  if  after 

all  it  should  prove  unreal, 
The  doubts  of  day-time  and  the  doubts  of 

night-time,  the  curious  whether  and  how, 
Whether  that  which  appears  so  is  so,  or  if 

it  all  flashes  and  specks  ? 
Men  and  women  crowding  fast  in  the  streets. 

if  they  are  not  flashes  and  specks  what 

are  they  ?  .  3o 

The  streets  themselves  and  the  facades  of 

houses,  and  goods  in  the  windows, 
Vehicles,  teams,  the  heavy-plank'd  wharves, 

the  huge  crossing  at  the  ferries, 
The  village  on  the  highland  seen  from  afar 

at  sunset,  the  river  between, 
Shadows,  aureola  and  mist,  the  light  falling 
*    on  roofs  and  gables  of  white  or  brown  two 

miles  off, 


WALT   WHITMAN 


533 


The  schooner  near  by  sleepily  dropping 
down  the  tide,  the  little  boat  slack-tow'd 
astern, 

The  hurrying  tumbling  waves,  quick-broken 
crests,  slapping, 

The  strata  of  color'd  clouds,  the  long  bar  of 
maroon-tint  away  solitary  by  itself,  the   • 
spread  of  purity  it  lies  motionless  in, 

The  horizon's  edge,  the  flying  sea-crow,  the  ! 
fragrance  of  salt  marsh  and  shore  mud,     | 

These  became  part  of  that  child  who  went 
forth,  every  dav,  and  who  now  goes,  and 
will  always  go  forth  every  day.1 

1855. 


SONG  OF   MYSELF2 


I  CELEBRATE  myself,  and  sing  myself, 
And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume, 
For  every  atom  belonging  to  me  as  good 
belongs  te  you. 

1  In  the  early  editions,  the  following  line  was  added 
at  the  end  of  the  poem:  — 

And  these  become  part  of  him  or  her  that  peruses  them  now. 

2  In  1855,  without  title.   In  1856,  as  the   «  Poem  of 
Walt  Whitman,  anAmerican.'  In  the  third  edition,  1860, 
with  the  title,  '  Walt  Whitman,'  and  so  in  the  following 
editions  until  1881,  when  the  present  title  was  first 
used. 

The  sections  were  first  numbered  in  1867. 

It  must  be  noted  from  the  beginning  that  Whitman 
celebrates  himself  not  as  an  isolated  individual,  but 
as  the  type  of  all  individual  selves,  claiming  for  them 
all  absolute  equality.  Compare  the  poem  beginning:  — 


One  of  Whitman's  early  fragments  (Notes  and  Frag- 
ents, p.  36,  no.  112)  reads  :  — 


Compare  also  Whitman's  Preface  to  the  187G  edition 
of  Leaves  of  Grass :  '  Then  I  meant  "  Leaves  of  Grass," 
as  published,  to  be  the  Poem  of  average  Identity  (of 
yours,  whoever  you  are,  now  reading  these  lines).  .  .  . 
All  serves,  helps  — but  in  the  centre  of  all,  absorbing 
all,  giving,  for  your  purpose,  the  only  meaning  and  vi- 
tality to  all,  master  or  mistress  of  all,  under  the  law, 
stands  Yourself.  To  sing  the  Song  of  that  law  of  aver- 
age Identity,  and  of  Yourself,  consistently  with  the 
divine  law  of  the  universal,  is  a  main  intention  of  these 
"  Leaves." ' 

In  his  '  myself '  he  means  to  picture  the  typical  demo- 
cratic self.  It  was  both  by  temperament,  and  also  with 
a  definite  purpose  in  view,  that  he  chose  to  speak  in 
the  first  person.  One  of  his  early  fragmentary  notes 
reads  :  '  Ego-style.  First-person-style.  Style  of  com- 
position an  animated  ego-style—  "  I  do  not  think"  "  I 
perceive  "  —  or  something  involving  self-esteem,  de- 
cision, authority  —  as  opposed  to  the  current  third  per- 
son style,  essayism,  didactic,  removed  from  animation, 
stating  general  truths  in  a  didactic,  well-smoothed  .  .  .' 
(yotes  and  Fragments,  p.  179.) 


I  loafe  and  invite  my  soul, 
I  lean  and  loafe  at  my  ease  observing  a 
spear  of  summer  grass. 

My  tongue,  every  atom  of  my  blood,  form'd 
from  this  soil,  this  air, 

Born  here  of  parents  born  here  from  par- 
ents the  same,  and  their  parents  the  same, 

I,  now  thirty-seven  years  old  in  perfect 
health  begin, 

Hoping  to  cease  not  till  death. 

Creeds  and  schools  in  abeyance,  10 

Retiring  back  a  while  sufficed  at  what  they 

are,  but  never  forgotten, 
I  harbor  for  good  or  bad,  I  permit  to  speak 

at  every  hazard, 
Nature  without  check  with  original  energy. 3 


A  child  said  What  is  the  grass  f   fetching  it 

to  me  with  full  hands; 
How  could  I  answer  the  child  ?   I  do  not 

know  what  it  is  any  more  than  he. 

I  guess  it  must  be  the  flag  of  my  disposition, 
out  of  hopeful  green  stuff  woven. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  the  handkerchief  of  the 
Lord, 

A  scented  gift  and  remembrancer  design- 
edly dropt, 

Bearing  the  owner's  name  someway  in  the 
corners,  that  we  may  see  and  remark,  and 
say  Whose  ? 

Or  I  guess  the  grass  is  itself  a  child,  the 
produced  babe  of  the  vegetation. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  a  uniform  hieroglyphic, 
And  it  means,    Sprouting   alike  in   broad 

zones  and  narrow  zones, 
Growing  among  black  folks  as  among  white, 
Kanuck,  Tuckahoe,  Congressman,  Cuff,  I 

give  them  the  same,  I  receive  them  the 


And  now  it  seems  to  me  the  beautiful  uncut 
hail-  of  graves. 

Tenderly  will  I  use  you  curling  grass, 
It  may  be  you  transpire  from  the  breasts  of 
young  men, 

s  The  last  eight  lines  of  section  1  are  not  found  in 
the  earlier  editions,  and  were  not  added  unt 


534 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


It  may  be  if  I  had  known  them  I  would 

have  loved  them, 
It  may  be  you  are  from  old  people,  or  from 

offspring  taken  soon  out  of  their  mothers' 

laps, 
And  here  you  are  the  mothers'  laps- 

This   grass   is   very  dark  to  be   from  the 

white  heads  of  old  mothers, 
Darker  than  the  colorless  beards  of  old  men, 
Dark   to   come  from  under  the  faint  red 

roofs  of  mouths.  20 

0  I   perceive   after  all  so  many  uttering 
tongues, 

And  I  perceive  they  do  not  come  from  the 
roofs  of  mouths  for  nothing. 

1  wish  I  could  translate  the  hints  about  the 
dead  young  men  and  women, 

And  the  hints  about  old  men  and  mothers, 
and  the  offspring  taken  soon  out  of  their 


What  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  young 

and  old  men  ? 
And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  the 

women  and  children  ? 

They  are  alive  and  well  somewhere, 

The  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is  really 

no  death, 
And  if  ever  there  was  it  led  forward  life, 

and  does  not  wait  at  the  end  to  arrest  it, 
And  ceas'd  the  moment  life  appear'd.       30 

All  goes  onward  and  outward,  nothing  col- 
lapses, 

And  to  die  is  different  from  what  any  one 
supposed,  and  luckier. 


Has  any  one  supposed  it  lucky  to  be  born? 
I  hasten  to  inform  him  or  her  it  is  just  as 
lucky  to  die,  and  I  know  it. 

I  pass  death  with  the  dying  and  birth  with 
the  new-wash'd  babe,  and  am  not  con- 
tain'd  between  my  hat  and  boots, 

And  peruse  manifold  objects,  no  two  alike 
and  every  one  good, 

The  earth  good  and  the  stars  good,  and  their 
adjuncts  all  good. 

[  am  not  an  earth  nor  an  adjunct  of  an 
earth, 


I  am  the  mate  and  companion  of  people,  all 
just  as  immortal  and  fathomless  as  my- 
self, 

(They  do  not  know  how  immortal,  but  I 
know.) 

Every  kind  for  itself  and  its  own,  for  me 

mine  male  and  female, 
For  me  those  that  have  been  boys  and  that 

love  women,  i0 

For  me  the  man  that  is  proud  and  feels  how 

it  stings  to  be  slighted, 
For  me  the  sweet-heart  and  the  old  maid, 

for    me   mothers    and    the    mothers  of 

mothers, 
For  me  lips  that  have  smiled,  eyes  that  have 

shed  -tears, 

For  me  children  and  the  begetters  of  chil- 
dren. 

Undrape  !  you  are  not  guilty  to  me,  nor 
stale  nor  discarded, 

I  see  through  the  broadcloth  and  gingham 
whether  or  no, 

And  am  around,  tenacious,  acquisitive,  tire- 
less, and  cannot  be  shaken  away. 

8 

The  little  one  sleeps  in  its  cradle, 
I  lift  the  gauze  and  look  a  long  time,  and 
silently  brush  away  flies  with  my  hand. 

The  youngster  and  the  red- faced  girl  turn 

aside  up  the  bushy  hill, 
I  peeringly  view  them  from  the  top. 

The  suicide   sprawls  on  the  bloody  floor  of 

the  bedroom, 
I  witness  the  corpse  with  its  dabbled  hair, 

I  note  where  the  pistol  has  fallen. 


The  big  doors  of  the  country  barn   stand 

open  and  ready, 
The  dried  grass  of  the  harvest-time  loads 

the  slow-drawn  wagon, 
The  clear  light  plays  on   the  brown  gray 

and  green  intertinged, 
The   armfuls   are   pack'd   to   the  sagging 

mow. 

I  am  there,  I  help,  I  came  stretch'd  atop 

of  the  load, 
I  felt  its  soft  jolts,  one  leg  reclined  on  the 

other, 


WALT  WHITMAN 


535 


I  jump  from  the  cross-beams  and  seize  the 

clover  and  timothy, 
And  roll  head  over  heels  and  tangle  my 

hair  full  of  wisps. 


Alone  far  in  the  wilds  and  mountains  I 

hunt, 
Wandering  amazed  at  my  own  lightness 

and  glee, 
In  the  late  afternoon  choosing  a  safe  spot 

to  pass  the  night, 
Kindling  a  fire  and  broiling  the  fresh-kill'd 

game, 
Falling  asleep  on  the  gather'd  leaves  with 

my  dog  and  gun  by  my  side. 

The  Yankee  clipper  is  under  her  sky-sails, 

she  cuts  the  sparkle  and  scud, 
My  eyes  settle  the  land,  I  bend  at  her  prow 

or  shout  joyously  from  the  deck. 

The  boatmen  and  clam-diggers  arose  early 

and  stopt  for  me, 
I  tuck'd  my  trowser-ends  in  my  boots  and 

went  and  had  a  good  time; 
You  should  have  been  with  us  that  day 

round  the  chowder-kettle.  10 

I  saw  the  marriage  of  the  trapper  in  the 
open  air  in  the  far  west,  the  bride  was  a 
red  girl, 

Her  father  and  her  friends  sat  near  cross- 
legged  and  dumbly  smoking,  they  had 
moccasins  to  their  feet  and  large  thick 
blankets  hanging  from  their  shoulders, 

On  a  bank  lounged  the  trapper,  he  was 
drest  mostly  in  skins,  his  luxuriant  beard 
and  curls  protected  his  neck,  he  held  his 
bride  by  the  hand, 

She  had  long  eyelashes,  her  head  was  bare, 
her  coarse  straight  locks  descended  upon 
her  voluptuous  limbs  and  reach'd  to  her 
feet. 

The  runaway  slave  came  to  my  house  and 

stopt  outside, 
I  heard  his  motions  crackling  the  twigs  of 

the  woodpile, 
Through  the  swung  half-door  of  the  kitchen 

I  saw  him  limpsy  and  weak, 
And  went  where  he  sat  on  a  log  and  led 

him  m  and  assured  him, 
And  brought  water  and  fill'd  a  tub  for  his 

sweated  body  and  bruis'd  feet, 


And  gave  him  a  room  that  enter'd  from  my 
own,  and  gave  him  some  coarse  clean 
clothes,  20 

And  remember  perfectly  well  his  revolving 
eyes  and  his  awkwardness, 

And  remember  putting  plasters  on  the  galls 
of  his  neck  and  ankles; 

He  staid  with  me  a  week  before  he  was  re- 
cuperated and  pass'd  north, 

I  had  him  sit  next  me  at  table,  my  fire-lock 
lean'd  in  the  corner. 


The  wild  gander  leads  his  flock  through  the 

cool  night, 
Ya-honk  he  says,  and  sounds  it  down  to  me 

like  an  invitation, 
The  pert  may  suppose  it  meaningless,  but 

I,  listening  close, 
Find  its  purpose  and  place  up  there  toward 

the  wintry  sky. 
The  sharp-hoof 'd  moose  of  the  north,  the 

cat  on  the  house-sill,  the  chickadee,  the 

prairie-dog, 
The  litter  of  the  grunting  sow  as  they  tug 

at  her  teats, 
The  brood  of  the  turkey-hen  and  she  with 

her  half-spread  wings, 
I  see  in  them  and  myself  the  same  old  law. 

The  press  of  my  foot  to  the  earth  springs  a 

hundred  affections, 
They  scorn  the  best  I  can  do  to  relate  them. 

I  am  enamour'd  of  growing  out-doors,      n 
Of  men  that  live  among  cattle  or  taste  of 

the  ocean  or  woods, 
Of  the  builders  and  steerers  of  ships  and 

the  wielders  of  axes  and  mauls,  and  the 

drivers  of  horses, 
I  can  eat  and  sleep  with  them  week  in  and 

week  out. 

What  is  commonest,  cheapest,  nearest,  easi- 
est, is  Me, 

Me  going  in  for  my  chances,  spending  for 
vast  returns, 

Adorning  myself  to  bestow  myself  on  the 
first  that  will  take  me, 

Not  asking  the  sky  to  come  down  to  my 
good  will, 

Scattering  it  freely  forever. 


536 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


I  am  of  old  and  young,  of  the  foolish  as 
much  as  the  wise, 

Regardless  of  others,  ever  regardful  of 
others, 

Maternal  as  well  as  paternal,  a  child  as  well 
as  a  man, 

Stuff'd  with  the  stuff  that  is  coarse  and 
stuff 'd  with  the  stuff  that  is  fine. 

One  of  the  Nation  of  many  nations,  the 
smallest  the  same  and  the  largest  the 
same, 

A  Southerner  soon  as  a  Northerner,  a 
planter  nonchalant  and  hospitable  down 
by  the  Oconee  I  live, 

A  Yankee  bound  my  own  way  ready  for 
trade,  my  joints  the  limberest  joints  on 
earth  and  the  sternest  joints  on  earth, 

A.  Kentuckian  walking  the  vale  of  the  Elk- 
horn  in  my  deer-skin  leggings,  a  Louisi- 
aniaii  or  Georgian, 

A  boatman  over  lakes  or  bays  or  along 
coasts,  a  Hoosier,  Badger,  Buckeye; 

At  home  on  Kanadian  snow-shoes  or  up  in 
the  bush,  or  with  fishermen  off  New- 
foundland, 10 

At  home  in  the  fleet  of  ice-boats,  sailing 
with  the  rest  and  tacking, 

At  home  on  the  hills  of  Vermont  or  in  the 
woods  of  Maine,  or  the  Texan  ranch, 

Comrade  of  Californians,  comrade  of  free 
North- Westerners  (loving  their  big  pro- 
portions), 

Comrade  of  raftsmen  and  coalmen, '  com- 
rade of  all  who  shake  hands  and  welcome 
to  drink  and  meat, 

A  learner  with  the  simplest,  a  teacher  of 
the  thoughtftllest, 

A  novice  beginning  yet  experient  of  myriads 


Of  every  hue  and  caste  am  I,  of  every  rank 
and  religion, 

A  farmer,  mechanic,  artist,  gentleman, 
sailor,  quaker, 

Prisoner,  fancy-man,  rowdy,  -lawyer,  physi- 
cian, priest. 

I   resist   any   thing   better   than   my  own 

diversity,  20 

Breathe  the  air  but  leave  plenty  after  me, 

And    am   not   stuck   up,   and    am   in   my 

place. 

(The  moth  and  the  fish-eggs  are  in  their 
place, 


The  bright  suns  I  see  and  the  dark  suns  1 
cannot  see  are  in  their  place, 

The  palpable  is  in  its  place  and  the  impal- 
pable is  in  its  place.) 


These  are  really  the  thoughts  of  all  men  in 

all  ages  and  lands,  they  are  not  original 

with  me, 
If  they  are  not  yours  as  much  as  mine  they 

are  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing, 
If  they  are  not  the  riddle  and  the  untying 

of  the  riddle  they  are  nothing, 
If  they  are  not  just  as  close  as  they  are 

distant  they  are  nothing. 

This  is  the  grass  that  grows  wherever  the 

land  is  and  the  water  is, 
This    the    common   air    that    bathes    the 

globe. 


With  music  strong  I  come,  with  my  cornets 

and  my  drums, 
I  play  not  marches   for   accepted   victors 

only,  I  play  marches  for  conquer'd  and 

slain  persons.1 

Have  you  heard  that  it  was  good  to  gain 

the  day  ? 
I  also  say  it  is  good  to  fall,  battles  are  lost 

in  the   same    spirit   in    which   they  are 

won. 

I  beat  and  pound  for  the  dead, 
I  blow  through  my  embouchures  my  loud- 
est and  gayest  for  them.2 

Vivas  to  those  who  have  fail'd  ! 

And  to  those  whose  war-vessels  sank  in  the 

sea  ! 
And  to  those  themselves  who  sank  in  the 

sea! 

1  Instead  of  these  two  lines,  the  original  edition  has : 

This  is  the  breath  of  laws  and  songs  and  behaviour, 

Tliis  is  the  tasteless  water  of  souls  .  .  .  this  is  the  true  sus- 
tenance. 

It  is  for  the  illiterate  ...  it  is  for  the  judges  of  the  supreme 
court  .  .  .  it  is  for  the  federal  capitol  and  the  state  capitals, 

It  is  for  the  admirable  communes  of  literary  men  and  com- 
posers and  singers  and  lecturers  and  engineers  and  savans, 

It  is  for  the  endless  races  of  working  people  and  farmers  and 

This  is  the  trill  of  a  thousand  clear  cornets  and  scream  of  the 

octave  flute  and  strike  of  triangles. 
I  play  not  a  march  for  victors  only  ...  I  play  great  marches 

for  conquered  and  slain  persons. 

*  I  sound  triumphal  drums  for  the  dead. 
1   fling  through  my  embouchures  the    loudest    and  gayert 
music  to  them.    (1S55.) 


WALT   WHITMAN 


537 


And  to  all  generals  that  lost  engagements, 

and  all  overcome  heroes  ! 
And  the  numberless  unknown  heroes  equal 

to  the  greatest  heroes  known  ! 


In  a/1  people  I  see  myself,  none  more  and 

not  one  a  barley-corn  less, 
And  the  good  or  bad  I  say  of  myself  I  say 

of  them. 

I  know  I  am  solid  and  sound, 

To  me  the  converging  objects  of  the  uni- 
verse perpetually  flow, 

All  are  written  to  me,  and  I  must  get  what 
the  writing  means. 

I  know  I  am  deathless, 

I  know  this  orbit  of  mine  cannot  be  swept 

by  a  carpenter's  compass, 
I  know  I  shall  not  pass  like  a  child's  carla- 

cue  cut  with  a  burnt  stick  at  night. 

I  know  I  am  august, 

I  do  not  trouble  my  spirit  to  vindicate  itself 
or  be  understood,  10 

I  see  that  the  elementary  laws  never  apolo- 
gize, 

(I  reckon  I  behave  no  prouder  than  the 
level  1  plant  my  house  by,  after  all.) 

I  exist  as  I  am,  that  is  enough, 

If  no  other  in  the  world  be  aware  I  sit 

content, 
And  if  each  and  all  be  aware  I  sit  content. 

One  world  is  aware  and  by  far  the  largest 

to  me,  and  that  is  myself, 
And  whether  I  come  to  my  own  to-day  or 

in  ten  thousand  or  ten  million  years, 
I  can  cheerfully  take  it  now,  or  with  equal 

cheerfulness  I  can  wait. 

My  foothold   is   tenon'd   and   mortis'd   in 

granite, 

I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution,          20 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time. 


I  am  the  poet  of  the  Body  and  I  am  the 

poet  of  the  Soul, 
The  pleasures  of  heaven  are  with  me  and 

the  pains  of  hell  are  with  me, 


The  first  I  graft  and  increase  upon  myself, 
the  latter  I  translate  into  a  new  tongue. 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  woman  the  same  as 

the  man, 
And  I  say  it  is  as  great  to  be  a  woman  as 

to  be  a  man, 
And  I  say  there  is  nothing  greater  than  the 

mother  of  men. 

I  chant  the  chant  of  dilation  or  pride,1 
We   have   had    ducking    and   deprecating 

about  enough, 
I  show  that  size  is  only  development. 

Have  you  outstript  the  rest  ?  are  you  the 
President  ?  10 

It  is  a  trifle,  they  will  more  than  arrive 
there  every  one,  and  still  pass  on. 

I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and 

growing  night,2 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half -held  by  the 

night. 
Press    close    bare-bosom 'd    night  —  press 

close  magnetic  nourishing  night ! 
Night  of  south  winds  —  night  of  the  large 

few  stars  ! 
Still  nodding  night  —  mad  naked  summer 

night. 

Smile  O  voluptuous  cool-breath'd  earth  ! 
Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees  ! 
Earth  of  departed  sunset  —  earth  of  the 
mountains  misty-topt  ! 

1  Among  Whitman's  early  memoranda  of  the  essen- 
tial things  not  to  be  omitted  from  Leaves  of  Grass  we 
find  :  '  Boldness  —  Nonchalant  ease  and  indifference. 
To  encourage  me  or  any  one  else  continually  to  strike 
out  alone.'     (Notes  and  Fragments,  p.  57.) 

2  The  original  form  of  this  beautiful  apostrophe  to 
Night  is  to  be  found  in  Notes  and  Fragments,  p.  17 :  — 

Night  of  south  winds-  night  of  the  large  few  stars  ! 
Still  slumberous  night  -  mad,  naked  summer  night ! 

Smile,  O  voluptuous,  procreant  earth  ! 

Earth  of  the  nodding  and  liquid  trees  1 

Earth  of  the  mountains,  misty-top't 

Earth  of  departed  sunset  —  Earth  of  shine  and  dark,  mottling 

the  tide  of  the  river  ! 
Earth  of  the  vitreous  fall  of  the  full  moon  just  tinged  with 

Earth  of  the  limpid  gray  of  clouds  purer  and  clearer  for  my 

Earth  of  far  arms  —  rich,  apple-blossomed  earth  1 
Smile,  for  your  lover  comes  I 

Spread  round  me  earth  !    Spread  with  your  curtained  hourw 
Take  me  as  many  a  time  you  've  taken ; 
Till  springing  up  in  ... 

Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love  ; 
Sustenance,  happiness,  health  have  given  ; 
Therefore  I  to  you  give  love  ; 
O  unspeakable,  passionate  love  ! 


538 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon 

just  tinged  with  blue  !  20 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark  mottling  the  tide 

of  the  river  ! 
Earth  of  the  limpid  gray  of  clouds  brighter 

and  clearer  for  my  sake  ! 
Far-swooping  elbow'd  earth  —  rich  apple- 

blossom'd  earth  ! 
Smile,  for  your  lover  comes. 

Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love  —  there- 
fore I  to  you  give  love  ! 

0  unspeakable  passionate  love  ! 

22 

You  sea  !  I  resign  myself  to  you  also  —  I 
guess  what  you  mean, 

1  behold  from  the  beach  your  crooked  in- 

viting fingers, 
I  believe  you  refuse  to   go  back  without 

feeling  of  me, 
We  must  have  a  turn  together,  I  undress, 

hurry  me  out  of  sight  of  the  land, 
Cushion    me    soft,    rock    me    in    billowy 

drowse, 
Dash  me   with  amorous  wet,  I  can  repay 

you. 

Sea  of  stretch'd  ground-swells, 

Sea  breathing  broad  and  convulsive  breaths, 

Sea  of  the  brine  of  life  and  of  unshovell'd 

yet  always-ready  graves, 
Howler  and  scooper  of  storms,  capricious 

and  dainty  sea, 
I  am  integral  with  you,  I  too  am  of  one 

phase  and  of  all  phases. 


3° 

All  truths  wait  in  all  things, 
They  neither  hasten  their  own  delivery  nor 

resist  it, 
They  do  not  need  the  obstetric  forceps  of 

the  surgeon, 

The  insignificant  is  as  big  to  me  as  any, 
(What  is  less  or  more  than  a  touch  ?) 

Logic  and  sermons  never  convince, 
The  damp  of  the  night  drives  deeper  into 
my  soul. 

(Only  what  proves  itself  to  every  man  and 

woman  is  so, 
Only  what  nobody  denies  is  so.) 


A   minute   and   a  drop   of   me   settle  my 

brain, 
I    believe   the   soggy   clods    shall  become 

lovers  and  lamps, 
And  a  compend  of  compends  is  the  meat  of 

a  man  or  woman, 
And  a  summit  and  flower  there  is  the  feel- 

ing they  have  for  each  other, 
And  they  are  to  branch  boundlessly  out  of 

that  lesson  until  it  becomes  omnific, 
And  until  one  and  all  shall  delight  us,  and 

we  them. 


I  believe  a  leaf  of  grass  is  no  less  than  the 

journey-work  of  the  stars, 
And  the  pismire  is  equally  perfect,  and  a 

grain  of  sand,  and  the  egg  of  the  wren, 
And  the  tree-toad  is  a  chef-d'oeuvre  for  the 

highest, 
And  the  running  blackberry  would  adorn 

the  parlors  of  heaven, 
And  the  narrowest  hinge  in  my  hand  puts 

to  scorn  all  machinery, 
And  the  cow  crunching  with  depress'd  head 

surpasses  any  statue, 
And  a  mouse  is  miracle  enough  to  stagger 

sextillions  of  infidels. 


Space  and  Time  !  now  I  see  it  is  true,  what 

I  guess'd  at, 

What  I  guess'd  when  I  loaf 'd  on  the  grass, 
What  I  guess'd  while  I  lay  alone  in  my  bed, 
And  again  as  I  walk'd  the  beach  under  the 

paling  stars  of  the  morning. 

My  ties  and  ballasts  leave  me,  my  elbows 

rest  in  sea-gaps, 

I  skirt  sierras,  my  palms  cover  continents, 
I  am  afoot  with  my  vision. 

By  the  city's  quadrangular  houses  —  in  log 
huts,  camping  with  lumbermen, 

Along  the  ruts  of  the  turnpike,  along  the  dry 
gulch  and  rivulet  bed, 

Weeding  my  onion-patch  or  hoeing  rows  of 
carrots  and  parsnips,  crossing  savannas, 
trailing  in  forests,  10 

Prospecting,  gold-digging,  girdling  the  trees 
of  a  new  purchase, 

Scorch'd  ankle-deep  by  the  hot  sand,  haul- 
ing my  boat  down  the  shallow  river, 


WALT   WHITMAN 


539 


Where  the  panther   walks  to  and  fro  on 

a  limb  overhead,  where  the  buck  turns 

furiously  at  the  hunter, 
Where  the  rattlesnake  suns  his  flabby  length 

on  a  rock,  where  the  otter  is  feeding  on 

fish, 
Where  the  alligator  in  bis  tough  pimples 

sleeps  by  the  bayou, 
Where  the  black  bear  is  searching  for  roots 

or  honey,  where  the  beaver  pats  the  mud 

with  his  paddle-shaped  tail; 
Over  the  growing  sugar,  over  the  yellow- 

flower'd  cotton  plant,  over  the  rice  in  its 

low  inoist  field, 
Over  the  sharp-peak'd  farm  house,  with  its 

scallop'd  scum  and  slender  shoots  from 

the  gutters, 
Over  the  western  persimmon,  over  the  long- 

leav'd  corn,  over  the  delicate  blue-flower 

flax, 
Over  the  white  and  brown  buckwheat,  a 

hummer  and  buzzer  there  with  the  rest, 
Over  the  dusky  green  of  the  rye  as  it  rip- 
ples and  shades  in  the  breeze;  21 
Scaling    mountains,    pulling    myself    cau- 
tiously up,  holding  on  by  low  scragged 

limbs, 
Walking  the  path  worn  in  the  grass  and 

beat  through  the  leaves  of  the  brush, 
Where  the  quail  is  whistling  betwixt  the 

woods  and  the  wheat-lot, 
Where  the  bat  flies  in  the  Seventh-month 

eve,   where   the   great    gold-bug    drops 

through  the  dark, 
Where  the  brook  puts  out  of  the  roots  of 

the  old  tree  and  flows  to  the  meadow, 
Where  cattle  stand  and  shake  away  flies 

with  the  tremulous  shuddering  of  their 

hides, 
Where  the  cheese-cloth  hangs  in  the  kitchen, 

where  andirons  straddle  the  hearth-slab, 

where  cobwebs  fall  in  festoons  from  the 

rafters; 
Where  trip-hammers  crash,  where  the  press 

is  whirling  its  cylinders, 
Wherever  the  human  heart  beats  with  ter- 
rible throes  under  its  ribs,  3o 
Where  the  pear-shaped  balloon  is  floating 

aloft  (floating  in  it  myself  and  looking 

composedly  down), 

Where  the  life-car  is  drawn  on  the  slip- 
noose,  where  the  heat  hatches  pale-green 

eggs  in  the  dented  sand, 
Where  the  she-whale  swims  with  her  calf 

and  never  forsakes  it, 


Where  the  steam-ship  trails  hind-ways  its 
long  pennant  of  smoke, 

Where  the  fin  of  the  shark  cuts  like  a  black 
chip  out  of  the  water, 

Where  the  half-burn'd  brig  is  riding  on  un- 
known  currents, 

Where  shells  grow  to  her  slimy  deck,  where 
the  dead  are  corrupting  below; 

Where  the  dense-starr'd  flag  is  borne  at  the 
head  of  the  regiments, 

Approaching  Manhattan  up  by  the  long- 
stretching  island, 

Under  Niagara,  the  cataract  falling  like  a 
veil  over  my  countenance,  40 

Upon  a  door-step,  upon  the  horse-block  of 
hard  wood  outside, 

Upon  the  race-course,  or  enjoying  pic- 
nics or  jigs  or  a  good  game  of  base- 
ball, 

At  he-festivals,  with  blackguard  gibes,  ironi- 
cal license,  bull-dances,  drinking,  laugh- 
t?r, 

At  the  cider-mill  tasting  the  sweets  of  the 
brown  mash,  sucking  the  juice  through  a 
straw, 

At  apple-peelings  wanting  kisses  for  all  the 
red  fruit  I  find, 

At  musters,  beach-parties,  friendly  bees, 
huskings,  house-raisings; 

Where  the  mocking-bird  sounds  his  deli- 
cious gurgles,  cackles,  screams,  weeps, 

Where  the  hay-rick  stands  in  the  barn-yard, 
where  the  dry-stalks  are  scatter'd,  where 
the  brood-cow  waits  in  the  hovel, 

Where  the  bull  advances  to  do  his  mascu- 
line work,  where  the  stud  to  the  mare, 
where  the  cock  is  treading  the  hen, 

Where  the  heifers  browse,  where  geese 
nip  their  food  with  short  jerks,  50 

Where  sun-down  shadows  lengthen  over  the 
limitless  and  lonesome  prairie, 

Where  herds  of  buffalo  make  a  crawling 
spread  of  the  square  miles  far  and  near, 

Where  the  humming-bird  shimmers,  where 
the  neck  of  the  long-lived  swan  is  curv- 
ing and  winding, 

Where  the  laughing-gull  scoots  by  the 
shore,  where  she  laughs  her  near-human 
laugh, 

Where  bee-hives  range  on  a  gray  bench  in 
the  garden  half  hid  by  the  high  weeds, 

Where  band-neck'd  partridges  roost  in  a 
ring  on  the  ground  with  their  heads  out,, 

Where  burial  coaches  enter  the  arch'd  gates 
of  a  cemetery, 


540 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Where  winter  wolves  bark  amid  wastes  of 
snow  and  icicled  trees, 

Where  the  yellow-crown'd  heron  conies  to 
the  edge  of  the  marsh  at  night  and  feeds 
upon  small  crabs, 

Where  the  splash  of  swimmers  and  divers 
cools  the  warm  noon,  60 

Where  the  katy-did  works  her  chromatic 
reed  on  the  walnut-tree  over  the  well, 

Through  patches  of  citrons  and  cucumbers 
with  silver-wired  leaves, 

Through  the  salt-lick  or  orange  glade,  or 
under  conical  firs, 

Through  the  gymnasium,  through  the  cur- 
tain'd  saloon,  through  the  office  or  public 
hall; 

Pleas'd  with  the  native  and  pleas'd  with  the 
foreign,  pleas'd  with  the  new  and  old, 

Pleas'd  with  the  homely  woman  as  well  as 
the  handsome, 

Pleas'd  with  the  quakeress  as  she  puts  off 
her  bonnet  and  talks  melodiously, 

Pleas'd  with  the  tune  of  the  choir  of  the 
whitewash'd  church, 

Pleas'd  with  the  earnest  words  of  the  sweat- 
ing Methodist  preacher,  impress'd  seri- 
ously at  the  camp-meeting; 

Looking  in  at  the  shop-windows  of  Broad- 
way the  whole  forenoon,  flatting  the  flesh 
of  my  nose  on  the  thick  plate  glass,  7o 

Wandering  the  same  afternoon  with  my 
face  turn'd  up  to  the  clouds,  or  down  a 
lane  or  along  the  beach, 

My  right  and  left  arms  round  the  sides  of 
two  friends,  and  I  in  the  middle; 

Coming  home  with  the  silent  and  dark- 
cheek'd  bush-boy,  (behind  me  he  rides  at 
the  drape  of  the  day,) 

Far  from  the  settlements  studying  the 
print  of  animals'  feet,  or  the  moccasin 
print, 

By  the  cot  in  the  hospital  reaching  lemon- 
ade to  a  feverish  patient, 

Nigh  the  coffin'd  corpse  when  all  is  still, 
examining  with  a  candle; 

Voyaging  to  every  port  to  dicker  and  ad- 
venture, 

Hurrying  with  the  modern  crowd  as  eager 
and  fickle  as  any, 

Hot  toward  one  I  hate,  ready  in  my  mad- 
ness to  knife  him, 

Solitary  at  midnight  in  my  back  yard,  my 
thoughts  gone  from  me  a  long  while,  80 

Walking  the  old  hills  of  Judaea  with  the 
beautiful  gentle  God  by  my  side, 


Speeding  through  space,  speeding  through 
heaven  and  the  stars, 

Speeding  amid  the  seven  satellites  and  the 
broad  ring,  and  the  diameter  of  eighty 
thousand  miles, 

Speeding  with  tail'd  meteors,  throwing  fire- 
balls like  the  rest, 

Carrying  the  crescent  child  that  carries  its 
own  full  mother  in  its  belly,  1 

Storming,  enjoying,  planning,  loving,  cau- 
tioning, 

Backing  and  filling,  appearing  and  disap- 
pearing, 

I  tread  day  and  night  such  roads. 

I  visit  the  orchards  of  spheres  and  look  at 

the  product,  2 
And  look  at  quintillions  ripen 'd  and  look  at 

quintillions  green.  9o 

I  fly  those  flights  of  a  fluid  and  swallowing 

soul, 
My  course   runs  below  the   soundings   of 

plummets. 

I  help  myself  to  material  and  immate- 
rial, 

No  guard  can  shut  me  off,  no  law  prevent 
me. 

I  anchor  my  ship  for  a  little  while  only, 
My  messengers  continually  cruise  away  or 
bring  their  returns  to  me. 

I  go  hunting  polar  furs  and  the  seal,  leaping 
chasms  with  a  pike  pointed  staff,  clinging 
to  topples  of  brittle  and  blue. 

I  ascend  to  the  foretruck, 

I  take  my  place  late  at  night  in  the  crow's- 
nest, 

We  sail  the  arctic  sea,  it  is  plenty  light 
enough,  100 

Through  the  clear  atmosphere  I  stretch 
around  on  the  wonderful  beauty, 

The  enormous  masses  of  ice  pass  me  and 
I  pass  them,  the  scenery  is  plain  in  all 
directions, 

The  white-topt  mountains  show  in  the  dis- 
tance, I  fling  out  my  fancies  toward  them, 

1  Compare  the  old  ballad:  — 


WALT   WHITMAN 


We  are  approaching  some  great  battle- 
field in  wbich  we  are  soon  to  be  engaged, 

We  pass  the  colossal  outposts  of  the  en- 
campment, we  pass  with  still  feet  and 
caution, 

Or  we  are  entering  by  the  suburbs  some  vast 
and  ruin'd  city, 

The  blocks  and  fallen  architecture  more 
than  all  the  living  cities  of  the  globe. 


I  understand  the  large  hearts  of  heroes, 

The  courage  of  present  times  and  all  times, 

How  the  skipper  saw  the  crowded  and  rud- 
derless wreck  of  the  steam-ship,  and 
Death  chasing  it  up  and  down  the  storm, 

How  he  knuckled  tight  and  gave  not  back 
an  inch,  and  was  faithful  of  days  and 
faithful  of  nights,  m 

And  chalk'd  in  large  letters  on  a  board,  Be 
of  good  cheer,  we  will  not  desert  you  ; 

How  he  follow'dwith  them  andtack'd  with 
them  three  days  and  would  not  give  it 
up, 

How  he  saved  the  drifting  company  at 
last, 

How  the  lank  loose-go wn'd  women  look'd 
when  boated  from  the  side  of  their  pre- 
pared graves, 

How  the  silent  old-faced  infants  and  the 
lifted  sick,  and  the  sharp-lipp'd  unshaved 
men; 

All  this  I  swallow,  it  tastes  good,  I  like  it 
well,  it  becomes  mine, 

I  am  the  man,  I  suffer'd,  I  was  there. 

The  disdain  and  calmness  of  martyrs, 
The  mother  of  old,  condemn'd  for  a  witch, 

burnt  with  dry  wood,  her  children  gazing 

on,  120 

The  hounded  slave  that  flags  in  the  race, 

leans  by  the  fence,  blowing,  cover'd  with 

sweat, 
The  twinges  that  sting  like  needles  his  legs 

and  neck,  the  murderous  buckshot  and 

the  bullets, 
All  these  I  feel  or  am. 

I  am  the  hounded  slave,  I  wince  at  the  bite 

of  the  dogs, 
Hell  and  despair  are  upon  me,  crack  and 

again  crack  the  marksmen, 
I  clutch  the  rails  of  the  fence,  my  gore 

dribs,  thinn'd  with  the  ooze  of  my  skin, 
I  fall  on  the  weeds  and  stones, 


The  riders  spur  their  unwilling  horses,  haul 

close, 
Taunt  my  dizzy  ears  and  beat  me  violently 

over  the  head  with  whip-stocks. 

Agonies  are  one  of  my  changes  of  gar- 
ments, 130 

I  do  not  ask  the  wounded  person  how  he 
feels,  I  myself  become  the  wounded  per- 
son, 

My  hurts  turn  livid  upon  me  as  I  lean  on  a 
cane  and  observe. 

I  am  the  mash'd  fireman  with  breast-bone 
broken, 

Tumbling  walls  buried  me  in  their  debris, 

Heat  and  smoke  I  inspired,  1  heard  the  yell- 
ing shouts  of  my  comrades, 

I  heard  the  distant  click  of  their  picks  and 
shovels, 

They  have  clear'd  the  beams  away,  they 
tenderly  lift  me  forth. 

I  lie  in  the  night  air  in  my  red  shirt,  the 

pervading  hush  is  for  my  sake, 
Painless  after  all  I  lie  exhausted  but  not  so 


White  and  beautiful  are  the  faces  around 
me,  the  heads  are  bared  of  their  fire-caps, 

The  kneeling  crowd  fades  with  the  light  of 
the  torches.  141 

Distant  and  dead  resuscitate, 
They  show  as  the  dial  or  move  as  the  hands 
of  me,  I  am  the  clock  myself. 

I  am  an  old  artillerist,  I  tell  of  my  fort's 

bombardment, 
I  am  there  again. 

Again  the  long  roll  of  the  drummers, 
Again  the  attacking  cannon,  mortars, 
Again  to  my  listening  ears  the  cannon  re- 
sponsive. 

I  take  part,  I  see  and  hear  the  whole, 

The  cries,  curses,  roar,  the  plaudits  for  well- 
aim 'd  shots,  150 

The  ambulanza  slowly  passing  trailing  its 
red  drip, 

Workmen  searching  after  damages,  making 
indispensable  repairs, 

The  fall  of  grenades  through  the  rent  roof, 
the  fan-shaped  explosion, 

The  whizz  of  limbs,  heads,  stone,  wood,  iron, 
high  in  the  air. 


542 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Again   gurgles   the   mouth   of    my   dying 
sral,   he    furiously   waves   with    his 


He  gasps  through  the  clot  Mind  not  me  — 
mind  —  the  entrenchments. 


Now  I  tell  what  I  knew  in  Texas  in  my 

early  youth,1 

(I  tell  not  the  fall  of  Alamo, 
Not  one  escaped  to  tell  the  fall  of  Alamo, 
The  hundred  and  fifty  are  dumb  yet  at 

Alamo,) 
T  is  the  tale  of  the  murder  in  cold  blood  of 

four  hundred  and  twelve  young  men. 

Retreating  they  had  form'd  in  a  hollow 
square  with  their  baggage  for  breast- 
works, 

Nine  hundred  lives  out  of  the  surrounding 
enemies,  nine  times  their  number,  was 
the  price  they  took  in  advance, 

Their  colonel  was  wounded  and  their  am- 
munition gone, 

They  treated  for  an  honorable  capitulation, 
receiv'd  writing  and  seal,  gave  up  their 
arms  and  march'd  back  prisoners  of  war. 

They  were  the  glory  of  the  race  of  ran- 
gers, 10 

Matchless  with  horse,  rifle,  song,  supper, 
courtship, 

Large,  turbulent,  generous,  handsome, 
proud,  and  affectionate, 

Bearded,  sunburnt,  drest  in  the  free  cos- 
tume of  hunters, 

Not  a  single  one  over  thirty  years  of  age. 

The  second  First-day  morning  they  were 
brought  out  in  squads  and  massacred,  it 
was  beautiful  early  summer, 

The  work  commenced  about  five  o'clock  and 
was  over  by  eight. 

None  obey'd  the  command  to  kneel, 
Some  made  a  mad  and  helpless  rush,  some 

stood  stark  and  straight, 
A  few  fell  at  once,  shot  in  the  temple  or 

heart,  the  living  and  dead  lay  together, 

i  Instead  of  the  first  five  lines  of  this  section,  the 
original  edition  has:  — 

I  tell  not  the  fall  of  Alamo  ...  not  one  escaped  to  tell  the 
Th«  hundre'd'and  fifty  are  dumb  yet  at  Alamo. 

Hear  now  the  tale  of  a  jet-black  sunrise, 
H«ar  of  the  murder  in  cold-blood  of  four  hundred  and  twelve 
young  men. 


The  maim'd  and  mangled  dug  in  the  dirt, 

the  new-comers  saw  them  there,  20 

Some  half-kill'd  attempted  to  crawl  away, 
These    were   despatch 'd   with  bayonets  or 

batter'd  with  the  blunts  of  muskets, 
A  youth  not  seventeen  years  old  seiz'd  his 

assassin   till  two  more  came  to  release 

him, 
The  three  were  all  torn  and  cover'd  with 

the  boy's  blood. 

At  eleven  o'clock  began  the  burning  of  the 

bodies; 
That  is  the  tale  of  the  murder  of  the  f  oui 

hundred  and  twelve  young  men.2 


Would  you  hear  of  an  old-time  sea- 
fight  ?  s 

Would  you  learn  who  won  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  and  stars  ? 

List  to  the  yarn,  as  my  grandmother's 
father  the  sailor  told  it  to  me. 

Our  foe  was  no  skulk  in  his  ship  I  tell  you 

(said  he), 
His  was  the  surly  English  pluck,  and  there 

is  no  tougher  or  truer,  and  never  was, 

and  never  will  be; 
Along   the    lower'd  eve  he  came  horribly 

raking  us. 

We  closed  with  him,  the  yards  entangled, 

the  cannon  tquch'd, 
My  captain  lash'd  fast  with  his  own  hands. 

We  had  receiv'd  some  eighteen  pound  shots 
under  the  water, 

On  our  lower-gun-deck  two  large  pieces 
had  burst  at  the  first  fire,  killing  all 
around  and  blowing  up  overhead.  10 

Fighting  at  sun-down,  fighting  at  dark, 
Ten  o'clock  at  night,  the  full  moon  well  up, 

our  leaks    on  the  gain,  and  five  feet  of 

water  reported, 
The  master-at-arms   loosing  the  prisoners 

confined  in  the  after-hold  to  give  them  a 

chance  for  themselves. 

2  In  the  original  edition  there  was  added  the  line:  — 
And  that  was  a  jet-black  sunrise. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


543 


The  transit  to  and  from  the  magazine  is 

now  stopt  by  the  sentinels, 
They   see    so  many  strange  faces  they  do 

not  know  whom  to  trust. 

Our  frigate  takes  fire, 
The  other  asks  if  we  demand  quarter  ? 
If  our  colors  are  struck  and  the  fighting 
done? 

Now  I  laugh  content,  for  I  hear  the  voice 
of  my  little  captain, 

We  have  not  struck,  he  composedly  cries, 
we  have  just  begun  our  part  of  the  fight- 
ing. 

Only  three  guns  are  in  use,  21 

One    is    directed   by   the    captain  himself 

against  the  enemy's  mainmast, 
Two  well  serv'd   with  grape  and  canister 

silence  his  musketry  and  clear  his  decks. 

The  tops  alone  second  the  fire  of  this  little 
battery,  especially  the  main-top, 

They  hold  out  bravely  during  the  whole  of 
th«  action. 

Not  a  moment's  cease, 
The  leaks  gain  fast  on  the  pumps,  the  fire 
eats  toward  the  powder-magazine. 

One  of  the  pumps  has  been  shot  away,  it  is 
generally  thought  we  are  sinking. 

Serene  stands  the  little  captain, 

He  is  not  hurried,  his  voice  is  neither  high 

nor  low,  3o 

His   eyes  give  more  light  to  us  than  our 

battle -lanterns. 

Toward  twelve  there  in  the  beams  of  the 
moon  they  surrender  to  us. 

36 

Stretch'd  and  still  lies  the  midnight, 
Two  great  hulls  motionless  on  the  breast  of 

the  darkness, 
Our   vessel    riddled    and   slowly  sinking, 

preparations  to  pass  to  the  one  we  have 

conquer'd, 
The   captain  on   the    quarter-deck   coldly 

giving  his  orders  through  a  countenance 

white  as  a  sheet, 
Near  by  the  corpse  of  the  child  that  serv'd 

in  the  cabin, 


The  dead  face  of  an  old  salt  with  long  white 
hair  and  carefully  curl'd  whiskers, 

The  flames  spite  of  all  that  can  be  done 
flickering  aloft  and  below, 

The  husky  voices  of  the  two  or  three  offi- 
cers yet  fit  for  duty, 

Formless  stacks  of  bodies  and  bodies  by 
themselves,  dabs  of  flesh  upon  the  masts 
and  spars, 

Cut  of  cordage,  dangle  of  rigging,  slight 
shock  of  the  soothe  of  waves, 

Black  and  impassive  guns,  litter  of  pow- 
der-parcels, strong  scent, 

A  few  large  stars  overhead,  silent  and 
mournful  shining, 

Delicate  sniffs  of  sea-breeze,  smells  of  sedgy 
grass  and  fields  by  the  shore,  death-mes- 
sages given  in  charge  to  survivors, 

The  hiss  of  the  surgeon's  knife,  the  gnaw- 
ing teeth  of  his  saw, 

Wheeze,  cluck,  swash  of  falling  blood,  short 
wild  scream,  and  long,  dull,  tapering 
groan, 

These  so,  these  irretrievable. 


It  is  time  to  explain  myself  —  let  us  stand 
up. 

What  is  known  I  strip  away, 
I  launch  all  men  and  women  forward  with 
me  into  the  Unknown. 

The  clock  indicates  the  moment  —  but  what 
does  eternity  indicate  ?  1 

We  have  thus  far   exhausted   trillions   of 

winters  and  summers, 
There   are    trillions    ahead,   and    trillions 

ahead  of  them. 

Births  have  brought  us  richness  and  va- 
riety, 

And  other  births  will  bring  us  richness  and 
variety. 

I  do  not  call  one  greater  and  one  smaller, 
That  which  fills  its  period  and  place  is  equal 
to  any.  I0 

i  After  this  line  there  followed,  in  the  original  edi- 
tion,  another  paragraph  of  two  lines  :  — 

Eternity  lies  in  bottomless  reservoirs  ...  its   buckets  or* 

rising  forever  and  ever, 
They  pour  and  they  pour  and  they  exhale  away. 


544 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Were  mankind  murderous  or  jealous  upon 
you,  my  brother,  my  sister  ? 

I  am  sorry  for  you,  they  are  not  murder- 
ous or  jealous  upon  me, 

All  has  been  gentle  with  me,  I  keep  no  ac- 
count with  lamentation, 

(What  have  I  to  do  with  lamenta- 
tion?) 

I  am  an  acme  of  things  accomplish'd,  and 
I  an  encloser  of  things  to  be. 

My  feet  strike  an  apex  of  the  apices  of  the 

stairs, 
On  every  step  bunches  of  ages,  and  larger 

bunches  between  the  steps, 
All  below  duly  travel'd,  and  still  I  mount 

and  mount. 

Rise  after  rise  bow  the  phantoms  behind 

me, 
Afar  down  I  see  the  huge  first  Nothing,  I 

know  I  was  even  there,  20 

I    waited    unseen   and   always,   and   slept 

through  the  lethargic  mist,1 
And  took  my  time,  and  took  no  hurt  from 

the  fetid  carbon. 

Long  I  was  hugg'd  close  —  long  and  long. 

Immense  have  been  the  preparations   for 

me, 
Faithful  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have 

help'd  me. 

Cycles  ferried  my  cradle,  rowing  and  row- 
ing like  cheerful  boatmen, 

For  room  to  me  stars  kept  aside  in  their 
own  rings, 

They  sent  influences  to  look  after  what  was 
to  hold  me. 

Before  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother  gen- 
erations guided  me, 

My  embryo  has  never  been  torpid,  nothing 
could  overlay  it.  30 

For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb, 
The  long  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on, 
Vast  vegetables  gave  it  sustenance, 
Monstrous  sauroids  transported  it  in  their 
mouths  and  deposited  it  with  care. 

'  I  waited  unseen  and  always,  and  slept  while  God  car- 
ried me  through  the  lethargic  mist.     (1855.) 


All  forces  have  been  steadily  employ'd  to 

complete  and  delight  me, 
Now  on  this  spot  I  stand  with  my  robust 

soul. 


46 

I  know  I  have  the  best  of  time  and  space, 
and  was  never  measured  and  never  will 
be  measured. 

I  tramp  a  perpetual  journey,  (come  listen 

all  !) 
My  signs  are  a  rain-proof  coat,  good  shoes, 

and  a  staff  cut  from  the  woods, 
No  friend  of   mine  takes   his  ease  in  my 

chair, 

I  have  no  chair,  no  church,  no  philosophy, 
I  lead  no  man  to  a  dinner-table,  library, 

exchange, 
But  each  man  and  each  woman  of  you  I 

lead  upon  a  knoll, 

My  left  hand  hooking  you  round  the  waist, 
My  right  hand  pointing   to  landscapes  of 

continents  and  the  public  road. 

Not  I,  not  any  one  else  can  travel  that  road 
for  you,  10 

You  must  travel  it  for  yourself. 

It  is  not  far,  it  is  within  reach, 

Perhaps  you  have  been  on  it  since  you  were 

born  and  did  not  know, 
Perhaps  it  is  everywhere  on  water  and  on 

Shoulder  your  duds,  dear  son,  and  I  will 

mine,  and  let  us  hasten  forth, 
Wonderful  cities  and  free  nations  we  shall 

fetch  as  we  go. 

If  you  tire,  give  me  both  burdens,  and  rest 
the  chuff  of  your  hand  on  my  hip, 

And  in  due  time  you  shall  repay  the  same 
service  to  me, 

For  after  we  start  we  never  lie  by  again. 

This  day  before  dawn  I  ascended  a  hill  and 
look'd  at  the  crowded  heaven,  20 

And  I  said  to  my  spirit  When  we  become 
the  enfolders  of  those  orbs,  and  the  plea- 
sure and  knowledge  of  every  thing  in  them, 
shall  we  befill'd  and  satisfied  then  f 

And  my  spirit  said  No,  we  but  level  that  lift 
"  continue  beyond. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


545 


You  are  also  asking  me  questions  and  I  hear 

you, 
I  answer  that  I  cannot  answer,  you  must 

find  out  for  yourself. 

Sit  a  while  dear  sou, 

Here  are  biscuits  to  eat  and  here  is  milk 
to  drink, 

But  as  soon  as  you  sleep  and  renew  your- 
self in  sweet  clothes,  I  kiss  you  with  a 
good-by  kiss  and  open  the  gate  for  your 
egress  hence. 

Long  enough  have  you  dream 'd  contempt- 
ible dreams, 

Now  I  wash  the  gum  from  your  eyes, 
You  must  habit  yourself  to  the  dazzle  of 
the  light  and  of  every  moment  of  your 
life.  3o 

Long  have  you  timidly  waded   holding  a 

plank  by  the  shore, 
Now  I  will  you  to  be  a  bold  swimmer, 
To  jump  off  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  rise 

again,  nod  to  me,  shout,  and  laughingly 

dash  with  your  hair. 


I  am  the  teacher  of  athletes, 

He   that   by   me    spreads  a  wider   breast 

than  my  own  proves  the  width  of  my 

own, 
He  most  honors  my  style  who  learns  under 

it  to  destroy  the  teacher. 

The  boy  I  love,  the  same  becomes  a  man 

not  through  derived  power,  but  in   his 

own  right, 

Wicked  rather  than  virtuous  out  of  confor- 
mity or  fear, 
Fond  of  his  sweetheart,  relishing  well  his 

steak, 
Unrequited   love  or  a  slight  cutting  him 

worse  than  sharp  steel  cuts, 
First-rate  to  ride,  to  fight,  to  hit  the  bull's 

eye,  to  sail  a  skiff,  to  sing  a  song  or  play 

on  the  banjo, 
Preferring  scars  and  the  beard  and  faces 

pitted  with   small-pox  over   all   lather- 

ers, 
And  those  well-tann'd  to  those  that  keep 

out  of  the  sun.  10 

I  teach  straying   from   me,  yet  who  can 
stray  from  me  ? 


I  follow  you  whoever  you  are  from  the 
present  hour, 

My  words  itch  at  your  ears  till  you  under- 
stand them. 

I  do  not  say  these  things  for  a  dollar  or  to 
fill  up  the  time  while  I  wait  for  a  boat, 

(It  is  you  talking  just  as  much  as  myself, 
I  act  as  the  tongue  of  you, 

Tied  in  your  mouth,  in  mine  it  begins  to  be 
loosen'd.) 

I  swear  I  will  never  again  mention  love  or 

death  inside  a  house, 
And  I  swear  I  will  never  translate  myself 

at  all,  only  to  him  or  her  who  privately 

stays  with  me  hi  the  open  air. 

If  you  would   understand   me    go   to   the 

heights  or  water-shore, 
The  nearest  gnat  is  an  explanation,  and  a 

drop  or  motion  of  waves  a  key,  20 

The  maul,  the  oar,   the  hand-saw,  second 

my  words. 

No  shutter'd  room  or  school  can  commune 

with  me, 
But  roughs  and  little  children  better  than 

they. 

The  young  mechanic  is  closest  to  me,  he 

knows  me  well, 
The  woodman  that  takes  his  axe  and  jug 

with  him  shall  take  me  with  him  all  day, 
The  farm-boy  ploughing  in  the  field  feels 

good  at  the  sound  of  my  voice, 
In  vessels  that  sail  my  words  sail,  I  go  with 

fishermen  and  seamen  and  love  them. 

The  soldier  camp'd  or  upon  the  march  is 

mine, 
On  the  night  ere  the  pending  battle  many 

seek  me,  and  I  do  not  fail  them, 
On  that  solemn  night  (it  may  be  their  last) 

those  that  know  me  seek  me.1  30 

My  face  rubs  to  the  hunter's  face  when  he 
lies  down  alone  in  his  blanket, 

The  driver  thinking  of  me  does  not  mind 
the  jolt  of  his  wagon, 

The  young  mother  and  old  mother  compre- 
hend me, 

The  girl  and  the  wife  rest  the  needle  a 
moment  and  forget  where  they  are, 

They  and  all  would  resume  what  I  have 
told  them. 

»  These  three  lines  appeared  first  in  the  edition  of  1867. 


546 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


48 
I  have  said  that  the  soul  is  not  more  than 

the  body,1 
And  I  have  said  that  the  body  is  not  more 

than  the  soul, 
And  nothing,  not  God,  is  greater  to  one  than 

one's  self  is, 

And  whoever  walks  a  furlong  without  sym- 
pathy walks  to  his  own  funeral  drest  in 

his  shroud, 
And  I  or  you  pocketless  of  a  dime  may 

purchase  the  pick  of  the  earth, 
And  to  glance  with  an  eye  or  show  a  bean 

in  its  pod  confounds  the  learning  of  all 

times, 
And  there  is  no  trade  or  employment  but 

the  young  man  following  it  may  become 

a  hero, 
And  there  is  no  object  so  soft  but  it  makes 

a  hub  for  the  wheel'd  universe, 
And  I  say  to  any  man  or  woman,  Let  your 

soul  stand  cool  and  composed  before  a 

million  universes. 

1  Compare,  in  Notes  and  Fragments,  p.  3C,  No.  112  of 
the  '  First  Drafts  and  Rejected  Lines '  for  Leaves  of 
Grass.  Compare  also,  as  the  best  possible  commentary 
on  this  section,  two  passages  of  Whitman's  prose,  the 
first  a  note  written  probably  between  1850  and  1855,  the 
second  from  the  Preface  to  the  1876  edition  of  Leaves  of 
Grass :  — 

All  through  writings  preserve  the  equilibrium  of  the 
truth  that  the  material  world,  and  all  its  laws,  are  as 
grand  and  superb  as  the  spiritual  world  and  all  its  laws. 
Host  writers  have  disclaimed  the  physical  world,  and 
they  have  not  over-estimated  the  other,  or  soul,  but 
have  under-estimated  the  corporeal.  How  shall  my  eye 
separate  the  beauty  of  the  blossoming  buckwheat  field 
from  the  stalks  and  heads  of  tangible  matter  ?  How 
shall  I  know  what  the  life  is  except  as  I  see  it  in  the 
flesh  ?  I  will  not  praise  one  without  the  other  or  more 
than  the  other. 

Do  not  argue  at  all  or  compose  proofs  to  demonstrate 
things.  State  nothing  which  it  will  not  do  to  state  as 
apparent  to  all  eyes.  (Notes  and  Fragments,  p.  56.) 

It  was  originally  my  intention,  after  chanting  in 
'Leaves  of  Grass'  the  songs  of  the  body  and  exist- 
ence, to  then  compose  a  further,  equally  needed  vol- 
ume, based  on  those  convictions  of  perpetuity  and  con- 
servation which,  enveloping  all  precedents,  make  the 
unseen  soul  govern  absolutely  at  last.  I  meant,  while 
in  a  sort  continuing  the  theme  of  my  first  chants,  to 
ehift  the  slides,  and  exhibit  the  problem  and  paradox  of 
the  same  ardent  and  fully  appointed  personality  enter- 
ing the  sphere  of  the  resistless  gravitation  of  spiritual 
law,  and  with  cheerful  face  estimating  death,  not  at  all 
as  the  cessation,  but  as  somehow  what  I  feel  it  must 
be,  the  entrance  upon  by  far  the  greatest  part  of  exist- 
ence, and  something  that  life  is  at  least  as  much  for,  as 
it  is  for  itself.  But  the  full  construction  of  such  a 
work  is  beyond  my  powers,  and  must  remain  for  some 
bard  in  the  future.  The  physical  and  the  sensuous,  in 
themselves  or  in  their  immediate  continuations,  retain 
holds  upon  me  which  I  think  are  never  entirely  re- 
leas'd  ;  and  those  holds  I  have  not  only  not  denied,  but 
hardly  wish'd  to  weaken.  (Complete  Prose  Works,  pp. 
273,  274.) 


And  I  say  to  mankind,  Be  not  curious  about 

God,* 
For  I  who  am  curious  about  each  am  not 

curious  about  God, 
(No  array  of  terms  can  say  how  much  I  am 

at  peace  about  God  and  about  death.) 

I  hear  and  behold  God  in  every  object,  yet 
understand  God  not  in  the  least, 

Nor  do  1  understand  who  there  can  be 
more  wonderful  than  myself. 

Why  should  I  wish  to  see  God  better  than 

this  day  ? 
I  see  something  of  God  each  hour  of  the 

twenty-four,  and  each  moment  then, 
In  the  faces  of  men  and  women  I  see  God, 

and  in  my  own  face  in  the  glass, 
I  find  letters  from  God  dropt  in  the  street, 

and  every  one  is  sigu'd  by  God's  name, 
And  I  leave  them  where  they  are,  for  I 

know  that  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
Others  will  punctually  come  for  ever  and 

ever. 


The  past  and  present  wilt  —  I  have  fill'd 

them,  emptied  them, 
And  proceed  to  fill  my  next  fold  of  the 

future. 

Listener  up  there  !  what  have  you  to  con- 
fide tome? 

Look  in  my  face  while  I  snuff  the  sidle  of 
evening. 

(Talk  honestly,  no  one  else  hears  you,  and 
I  stay  only  a  minute  longer.) 

1  Compare   the  original    sketch    for    these  lines  in 
Notes  and  Fragments,  p.  24 :  — 

There  is  no  word  in  any  tongue, 

No  array,  no  form  of  symbol, 

To  tell  Ui  infatuation 

Who  would  define  the  scope  and  purpose  of  God. 

Mostly  this  we  have  of  God  ;  we  have  man. 

Ix>,  the  Sun  ; 

Its  glory  floods  the  moon 

Which  of  a  night  shines  in  some  turbid  pool. 

Shaken  by  soughing  winds  ; 

And  there  are  sparkles  mad  and  tossed  and  broken 

And  their  archetype  is  the  sun. 


ire   in    nothing  else  ex- 


WALT   WHITMAN 


547 


Do  I  contradict  myself  ? 

Very  well  then  I  contradict  myself, 

(I  am  large,  I  contain  multitudes.) 

I  concentrate  toward  them  that  are  nigh,  I 
wait  on  the  door-slab. 

Who  has  done  his  day's  work?  who  will 

soonest  be  through  with  his  supper  ? 
Who  wishes  to  walk  with  me  ? 

Will  you  speak  before  I   am  gone  ?  will 
you  prove  already  too  late  ? 


The  spotted  hawk  swoops  by  and  accuses 
me,  he  complains  of  my  gab  and  my 
loitering. 

I  too  am  not  a  bit  tamed,  I  too  am  untrans- 

latable, 
I  sound  my  barbaric  yawp  over  the  roofs 

of  the  world.1 

The  last  scud  of  day  holds  back  for  me, 
It  flings  my  likeness  after  the  rest  and  true 

as  any  on  the  shadow'd  wilds, 
It  coaxes  me  to  the  vapor  and  the  dusk. 

I  depart  as  air,  I  shake  my  white  locks  at 

the  runaway  sun, 
I  effuse  my  flesh  in  eddies,  and  drift  it  in 

lacy  jags. 

I  bequeath  myself  to  the  dirt  to  grow  from 

the  grass  I  love, 
If  you  want  me  again  look  for  me  under 

your  boot-soles. 

You  will  hardly  know  who  I  am  or  what  I 

mean, 
But  I  shall  be  good  health  to  you  neverthe- 

less, 
And  filter  and  fibre  your  blood. 

Failing  to  fetch  me  at  first  keep  encour- 

aged, 

Missing  me  one  place  search  another, 
I  stop  somewhere  waiting  for  you. 

1855. 

1  Compare   the   original  sketch  for  these  lines,  in 
Notes  and  Fragments,  p.  36  :  — 
The  spotted  hawk  salutes  the  approaching  night  ; 
He  sweeps  by  me  and  rebukes  me  hoarsely  with  his  invita- 

tion ; 
He  complains  with  sarcastic  Toice  of  my  lagging. 

i  feel  apt  to  clip  it  and  go  ; 
I  am  not  half  tamed  yet 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD 


AFOOT  and  light-hearted  I  take  to  the  open 

road, 

Healthy,  free,  the  world  before  me, 
The  long  brown  path   before  me   leading 

wherever  I  choose. 

Henceforth  I  ask  not  good-fortune,  I  my- 
self am  good-fortune, 

Henceforth  I  whimper  no  more,  postpone 
no  more,  need  nothing, 

Done  with  indoor  complaints,  libraries, 
querulous  criticisms, 8 

Strong  and  content  I  travel  the  opeu  road. 

The  earth,  that  is  sufficient, 
I  do  not  want  the  constellations  any  nearer, 
I  know  they  are  very  well  where  they  are, 
I  know  they  suffice  for  those  who  belong  to 
them.  •     ii 

(Still  here  I  carry  my  old  delicious  bur- 
dens, 

I  carry  them,  men  and  women,  I  carry 
them  with  me  wherever  I  go, 

I  swear  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  get  rid  of 
them, 

I  am  fill'd  with  them,  and  I  will  fill  them 
in  return.) 


You  road  I  enter  upon  and  look  around,  I 

believe  you  are  not  all  that  is  here, 
I  believe  that  much  unseen  is  also  here.4 

Here  the  profound  lesson  of  reception,  nor 
preference  nor  denial, 

The  black  with  his  woolly  head,  the  felon, 
the  diseas'd,  the  illiterate  person,  are  not 
denied ; 

The  birth,  the  hasting  after  the  physician, 
the  beggar's  tramp,  the  drunkard's  stag- 
ger, the  laughing  party  of  mechanics,  20 

3  A  great  recreation,  the  past  three  years,  has  been 
in  taking  long  walks  out  from  Washington,  five,  seven, 
perhaps  ten  miles  and  back ;  generally  with  my  friend 
Peter  Doyle,  who  is  as  fond  of  it  as  I  am.  Fine  moon- 
light nights,  over  the  perfect  military  roads,  hard  and 
smooth  —  or  Sundays  —  we  had  these  delightful  walks, 
never  to  be  forgotten.  (WHITMAN,  Specimen  Days, 
December  10th,  1865.  Complete  Prose  Works,  p.  70.) 

This  poem  first  appeared  in  1856,  with  the  title  « Poem 
of  the  Road.' 

»  This  line  was  added  in  the  edition  of  1881. 

*  In  the  first  form  of  the  poem,  1856,  this  line  read  • 
I  believe  that  something  unseen  is  also  here. 


548 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


The  escaped  youth,  the  rich  person's  car- 
riage, the  fop,  the  eloping  couple, 

The  early  market-man,  the  hearse,  the  mov- 
ing of  furniture  into  the  town,  the  re- 
turn back  from  the  town, 

They  pass,  I  also  pass,  any  thing  passes, 
none  can  be  interdicted, 

None  but  are  accepted,  none  but  shall  be 
dear  to  me. 


You  air  that  serves  me  with  breath  to 
speak  ! 

You  objects  that  call  from  diffusion  my 
meanings  and  give  them  shape  ! 

You  light  that  wraps  me  and  all  things  in 
delicate  equable  showers  ! l 

You  paths  worn  in  the  irregular  hollows  by 
the  roadsides  ! 

I  believe  you  are  latent  with  unseen  exist- 
ences, you  are  so  dear  to  me. 

You  flagg'd  walks  of  the  cities  !  you  strong 
curbs  at  the  edges  !  3o 

You  ferries !  you  planks  and  posts  of 
wharves  !  you  timber-lined  sides  !  you 
distant  ships  ! 

You  rows  of  houses  !  you  window-pierc'd 
facades  !  you  roofs  ! 

You  porches  and  entrances!  you  copings  and 
iron  guards  ! 

You  windows  whose  transparent  shells 
might  expose  so  much  ! 

You  doors  and  ascending  steps  !  you  arches  ! 

You  gray  stones  of  interminable  pave- 
ments !  you  trodden  crossings  ! 

From  all  that  has  touch'd  you  I  believe 
you  have  imparted  to  yourselves,  and  now 
would  impart  the  same  secretly  to  me, 

From  the  living  and  the  dead  you  have  peo- 
pled your  impassive  surfaces,  and  the 
spirits  thereof  would  be  evident  and  ami- 
cable with  me. 


The  earth  expanding  right  hand  and  lef  i 

hand, 
The  picture  alive,  every  part   in   its  best 

light,  4o 

1  In  the  first  form  of  the  poem  there  followed  here 
three  lines  which  were  omitted  in  1871  and  in  the  follow- 
ing editions :  — 
You  animals  moving  serenely  over  the  earth  ! 


The  music  falling  in  where  it  is  wanted, 
and  stopping  where  it  is  not  wanted, 

The  cheerful  voice  of  the  public  road,  the 
gay  fresh  sentiment  of  the  road. 

O  highway  I  travel,  do  you  say  to  me  Do 

not  leave  me? 
Do  you  say  Venture  not  —  if  you  leave  me 

you  are  lost  f 
Do   you  say  /  am  already  prepared,  I  am 

well-beaten  and  undenied,  adhere  to  me  'f 

0  public  road,  I  say  back  I  am  not  afraid 
to  leave  you,  yet  I  love  you, 

You  express  me  better  than  I  can  express 

myself, 
You  shall  be  more  to  me  than  my  poem. 

1  think  heroic  deeds  were  all  conceiv'd  in 
the  open  air,  and  all  free  poems  also, 

I  think  I  could  stop  here  myself  and  do 
miracles,  50 

I  think  whatever  I  shall  meet  on  the  road 
I  shall  like,  and  whoever  beholds  me 
shall  like  me, 

I  think  whoever  I  see  must  be  happy. 

5 

From  this  hour  I  ordain  myself  loos'd  of 
limits  and  imaginary  lines,2 

Going  where  I  list,  my  own  master  total 
and  absolute, 

Listening  to  others,  considering  well  what 
they  say, 

Pausing,  searching,  receiving,  contemplat- 
ing, 

Gently,  but  with  undeniable  will,  divesting 
myself  of  the  holds  that  would  hold 


I  inhale  great  draughts  of  space, 
The  east  and  the  west  are  mine,  and  the 
north  and  the  south  are  mine. 

I  am  larger,  better  than  I  thought,  60 

I  did  not  know  I  held  so  much  goodness. 

All  seems  beautiful  to  me, 

I  can  repeat  over  to  men  and  women  You 

have  done  such  good  to  me  I  would  do 

the  same  to  you, 
I  will  recruit  for  myself  and  you  as  I  go, 

*  In  the  edition  of  1856  this  section  began :  — 

From  this  hour,  freedom  T 

From  this  hour  I  ordain  myself  loos'd  of  limits,  etc. 


WALT  WHITMAN 


549 


I  will  scatter  myself  among  men  and  wo- 
men as  I  go, 

I  will  toss  a  new  gladness  and  roughness 
among  them, 

Whoever  denies  me  it  shall  not  trouble  me, 

Whoever  accepts  me  he  or  she  shall  be 
blessed  and  shall  bless  me. 


Now  if  a  thousand  perfect  men  were  to  ap- 
pear it  would  not  amaze  me, 

Now  if  a  thousand  beautiful  forms  of  wo- 
men appear'd  it  would  not  astonish  me.  70 

Now  I  see  the  secret  of  the  making  of  the 

best  persons, 
It  is  to  grow  in  the  open  air  and  to  eat  and 

sleep  with  the  earth. 

Here  a  great  personal  deed  has  room, 1 
(Such  a  deed  seizes  upon  the  hearts  of  the 

whole  race  of  men, 
Its  effusion  of  strength  and  will  overwhelms 

law   and   mocks   all   authority    and    all 

argument  against  it.) 

Here  is  the  test  of  wisdom, 

Wisdom  is  not  finally  tested  in  schools, 

Wisdom  cannot  be  pass'd  from  one  having 
it  to  another  not  having  it, 

Wisdom  is  of  the  soul,  is  not  susceptible  of 
proof,  is  its  own  proof, 

Applies  to  all  stages  and  objects  and  quali- 
ties and  is  content,  80 

Is  the  certainty  of  the  reality  and  immortal- 
ity of  things,  and  the  excellence  of  things ; 

Something  there  is  in  the  float  of  the  sight 
of  things  that  provokes  it  out  of  the  soul. 

Now  I  re-examine  philosophies  and  re- 
ligious, 

They  may  prove  well  in  lecture-rooms,  yet 
not  prove  at  all  under  the  spacious  clouds 
and  along  the  landscape  and  flowing  cur- 
rents. 

Here  is  realization, 

Here  is  a  man   tallied  —  he  realizes  here 

what  he  has  in  him, 
The   past,   the   future,   majesty,  love  —  if 

they  are  vacant  of  you,  you  are  vacant  of 

them. 2 

•  Here   is  space  —  here   a    great    personal   deed  has 

room.    (1856.) 
1  The    animals,    the    past,   the    future,  light,   space, 


Only  the  kernel  of  every  object  nourishes; 
Where  is  he  who  tears  off  the  husks  for 

you  and  me  ? 
Where  is  he  that  undoes  stratagems  and 

envelopes  for  you  and  me  ?  90 

Here  is  adhesiveness,  it  is  not  previously 
fashion 'd,  it  is  apropos; 

Do  you  know  what  it  is  as  you  pass  to  be 
loved  by  strangers  ? 

Do  you  know  the  talk  of  those  turning  eye- 
balls ? 


Here  is  the  efflux  of  the  soul, 

The  efflux  of  the  soul  comes  from  within 
through  embower'd  gates,  ever  provok- 
ing questions, 

These  yearnings  why  are  they  ?  these 
thoughts  in  the  darkness  why  are  they  ? 

Why  are  there  men  and  women  that  while 
they  are  nigh  me  the  sunlight  expands 
my  blood  ? 

Why  when  they  leave  me  do  my  pennants 
of  joy  sink  flat  and  lank  ? 

Why  are  there  trees  I  never  walk  under 
but  large  and  melodious  thoughts  descend 
upon  me  ? 

(I  think  they  hang  there  winter  and  sum- 
mer on  those  trees  and  always  drop  fruit 
as  I  pass  ;)  100 

What  is  it  I  interchange  so  suddenly  with 
strangers  ? 

What  with  some  driver  as  I  ride  on  the 
seat  by  his  side  ? 

What  with  some  fisherman  drawing  his 
seine  by  the  shore  as  I  walk  by  and  pause  ? 

What  gives  me  to  be  free  to  a  woman's  and 
man's  good-will  ?  what  gives  them  to  be 
free  to  mine  ? 


The  efflux  of  the  soul  is  happiness,  here  is 


I  think  it  pervades  the  open  air,  waiting  at 

all  times, 
Now    it    flows   unto   us,   we    are   rightly 

charged. 

Here  rises  the  fluid  and  attaching  character, 
The   fluid   and  attaching  character  is  the 

freshness  and  sweetness  of  man  and  wo- 

man, 

majesty,  love,  if  they  are  vacant  of  you,  yon  aw 
vacant  of  them.     (1856.) 


55° 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


(The  herbs  of  the  morning  sprout  no 
fresher  and  sweeter  every  day  out  of 
the  roots  of  themselves,  than  it  sprouts 
fresh  and  sweet  continually  out  of  it- 
self.) 

Toward  the  fluid  and  attaching  character 

exudes  the  sweat  of  the  love  of  young 

and  old, 
From  it  falls  distill'd  the  charm  that  mocks 

beauty  and  attainments, 
Toward  it  heaves  the  shuddering  longing 

ache  of  contact. 


Allous  !  whoever  you  are  come  travel  with 

me  ! 
Traveling   with   me  you   find  what   never 

tires. 

The  earth  never  tires, 

The  earth  is  rude,  silent, .incomprehensible 
at  first,  Nature  is  rude  and  incomprehen- 
sible at  first, 

Be  not  discouraged,  keep  on,  there  are  di- 
vine things  well  envelop'd, 

I  swear  to  you  there  are  divine  things  more 
beautiful  than  words  can  tell. 

Aliens  !  we  must  not  stop  here,  120 

However  sweet  these  laid-up  stores,  how- 
ever convenient  this  dwelling  we  cannot 
remain  here, 

However  shelter'd  this  port  and  however 
calm  these  waters  we  must  not  anchor 
here, 

However  welcome  the  hospitality  that  sur- 
rounds us  we  are  permitted  to  receive  it 
but  a  little  while. 


Aliens  !  the  inducements  shall  be  greater, 

We  will  sail  pathless  and  wild  seas, 

We  will  go  where  winds  blow,  waves  dash, 

and  the  Yankee  clipper  speeds  by  under 

full  sail. 

Allons  !  with  power,  liberty,  the  earth,  the 
elements, 

Health,  defiance,  gayety,  self-esteem,  curi- 
osity; 

Allons  !  from  all  formules  ! 

From  your  formules,  O  bat-eyed  and  ma- 
terialistic priests. 1  130 
1  The  1856  edition  has  '  formulas '  in  both  these  lines. 


The  stale  cadaver  blocks  up  the  passage  — 
the  burial  waits  no  longer. 

Allons  !  yet  take  warning  ! 

He  traveling  with  me  needs  the  best  blood, 
thews,  endurance, 

None  may  come  to  the  trial  till  he  or  she 
bring  courage  and  health, 

Come  not  here  if  you  have  already  spent 
the  best  of  yourself, 

Only  those  may  come  who  come  in  sweet 
and  determin'd  bodies, 

No  diseas'd  person,  no  rum-drinker  or  ven- 
ereal taint  is  permitted  here. 

(I  and  mine  do  not  convince  by  arguments, 

similes,  rhymes, 
We  convince  by  our  presence.) 


Listen  !  I  will  be  honest  with  you,  140 

I  do  not  offer  the  old  smooth  prizes,  but 

offer  rough  new  prizes, 
These  are   the  days  that  must  happen  to 

you: 

You  shall  not  heap  up  what  is  calPd  riches, 
You  shall  scatter  with  lavish  hand  all  that 

you  earn  or  achieve, 
You   but  arrive  at  the  city  to  which  you 

were  destin'd,  you  hardly  settle  yourself 

to  satisfaction  before  you  are  call'd  by  an 

irresistible  call  to  depart, 
You  shall  be  treated  to  the  ironical  smiles 

and  mockings  of  those  who  remain  behind 


yc 

Wh? 


rhat  beckonings  of  love  you  receive  you 
shall  only  answer  with  passionate  kisses 
of  parting, 

You  shall  not  allow  the  hold  of  those  who 
spread  their  reach'd  hands  toward  you. 


Allons  !  after  the  great  Companions,  and  to 

belong  to  them  ! 
They   too  are  on  the  road  —  they  are  the 

swift  and  majestic  men  —  they  are  the 

greatest  women,  2  150 

Enjoyers  of  calms  of  seas  and  storms  of  seas, 
Sailors  of  many  a  ship,  walkers  of  many  a 

mile  of  land, 

3  Here  began  in  the  1856  edition  a  new  paragraph  : 

Over  that  which  hindered  them,  over  that  which  retarded, 

passing  impediments  large  or  small, 

Committers  of  crimes,  committers  of  many  beautiful  virtues, 
Enjoyers  of  calms  of  seas  and  storms  of  seas,  .  .  . 

The  first  two  lines  were  omitted  from  1881  on. 


WALT  WHITMAN 


Habitue's  of  many  distant  countries,  habi- 

tu6s  of  far-distant  dwellings, 
Trusters  of  men  and  women,  observers  of 

cities,  solitary  toilers, 

Pausers  and  contemplators  of  tufts,  blos- 
soms, shells  of  the  shore, 
Dancers    at    wedding-dances,     kissers    of 

brides,  tender  helpers  of  children,  bearers 

of  children, 
Soldiers   of   revolts,   standers    by    gaping 

graves,  lowerers-down  of  coffins, 
Journeyers  over  consecutive  seasons,  over 

the  years,  the  curious  years  each  emer- 
ging from  that  which  preceded  it, 
Journeyers  as    with    companions,   namely 

their  own  diverse  phases, 
Forth-steppers  from  the  latent  unrealized 

baby-days,  160 

Journeyers   gayly   with   their   own  youth, 

Journeyers  with  their  bearded  and  well- 

grain'd  manhood, 
Journeyers  with  their  womanhood,  ample. 

unsurpass'd,  content, 
Journeyers  with  their  own  sublime  old  age 

of  manhood  or  womanhood, 
Old  age,  calm,  expanded,  broad  with  the 

haughty  breadth  of  the  universe, 
Old  age,  flowing   free  with  the  delicious 

near-by  freedom  of  death. 

13 
Aliens  !  to  that  which  is  endless  as  it  was 

beginningless, 
To  undergo  much,  tramps  of  days,  rests  of 

nights, 
To  merge  all  in  the  travel  they  tend  to,  and 

the  days  and  nights  they  tend  to, 
Again  to  merge  them  in  the  start  of  supe- 
rior journeys, 
To  see   nothing   anywhere    but   what  you 

may  reach  it  and  pass  it,  170 

To  conceive  no  time,  however  distant,  but 

what  you  may  reach  it  and  pass  it, 
To  look  up  or  down  no  road  but  it  stretches 

and  waits  for  you,  however  long  but  it 

stretches  and  waits  for  you, 
To  see  no  being,  not  God's  or  any,  but  you 

also  go  thither, 
To  see  no  possession  but  you  may  possess 

it,  enjoying  all  without  labor  or  purchase, 

abstracting  the  feast  yet  not  abstracting 

one  particle  of  it, 
To  take  the  best  of  the  farmer's  farm  and 

the   rich   man's   elegant   villa,   and   the 

chaste    blessings    of    the    well-married 


couple,  and  the  fruits  of   orchards  and 

flowers  of  gardens, 
To  take  to  your  use  out  of  the  compact 

cities  as  you  pass  through, 
To  carry   buildings  and   streets  with   you 

afterward  wherever  you  go, 
To  gather  the  minds  of  men  out  of  their 

brains  as  you  encounter  them,  to  gather 

the  love  out  of  their  hearts, 
To  take  your  lovers  on  the  road  with  you, 

for  all  that  you  leave  them  behind  you, 
To  know  the  universe  itself  as  a  road,  as 

many  roads,  as  roads  for  traveling  souls. 1 

All  parts  away  for  the  progress  of  souls,  181 
All  religion,  all  solid  things,  arts,  govern- 
ments —  all  that  was  or  is  apparent  upon 
this  globe,  or  any  globe  falls  into  niches 
and  corners  before  the  procession  of  souls 
along  the  grand  roads  of  the  universe. 

Of  the  progress  of  the  souls  of  men  and 
women  along  the  grand  roads  of  the  uni- 
verse, all  other '  progress  is  the  needed 
emblem  and  sustenance. 

Forever  alive,  forever  forward, 

Stately,  solemn,    sad,   withdrawn,   baffled, 

mad,  turbulent,  feeble,  dissatisfied, 
Desperate,  proud,  fond,  sick,  accepted  by 

men,  rejected  by  men, 
They  go  !  they  go  !  I  know  that  they  go, 

but  I  know  not  where  they  go, 
But  I  know  that  they  go  toward  the  best  — 

toward  something  great. 

Whoever  you  are,  come  forth  !  or  man  or 
woman  come  forth  ! 

You  must  not  stay  sleeping  and  dallying 
there  in  the  house,  though  you  built  it, 
or  though  it  has  been  built  for  you.  190 

Out  of  the  dark  confinement !  out  from  be- 
hind the  screen  ! 

It  is  useless  to  protest,  I  know  all  and  ex- 
pose it. 

Behold  through  you  as  bad  as  the  rest, 
Through  the  laughter,  dancing,  dining,  sup- 
ping, of  people, 

>  In  the  early  editions,  down  to  1881,  there  followa 
here  another  brief  paragraph :  — 

The  soul  travels, 

The  body  does  not  travel  as  much  as  the  soul, 
The  body  has  just  as  great  a  work  as  the  soul,  and  par* 
away  at  last  for  the  journeys  of  the  soul. 


552 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Inside  of  dresses  and  ornaments,  inside  of 

those  wash'd  and  trimm'd  faces, 
Behold  a  secret  silent  loathing  and  despair. 

No  husband,  no  wife,  no  friend,  trusted  to 

hear  the  confession, 
Another   self,   a   duplicate   of   every  one, 

skulking  and  hiding  it  goes, 
Formless  and  wordless  through  the  streets  of 

the  cities,  polite  and  bland  in  the  parlors, 
In  the  cars  of  railroads,  in  steamboats,  in 

the  public  assembly,  200 

Home  to  the  houses  of  men  and  women,  at 

the  table,  in  the  bedroom,  everywhere, 
Smartly  attired,  countenance  smiling,  form 

upright,  death  under  the   breast-bones, 

hell  under  the  skull-bones, 
Under  the  broadcloth  and  gloves,  under  the 

ribbons  and  artificial  flowers, 
Keeping  fair  with  the  customs,  speaking  not 

a  syllable  of  itself, 
Speaking  of  any  thing  else  but  never  of 

itself. 


Allons  !  through  struggles  and  wars  ! 
The  goal  that  was  named  cannot  be  coun- 
termanded. 

Have  the  past  struggles  succeeded  ? 

What  has  succeeded  ?  yourself  ?  your  na- 
tion ?  Nature  ? 

Now  understand  me  well  —  it  is  provided 
in  the  essence  of  things  that  from  any 
fruition  of  success,  no  matter  what,  shall 
come  forth  something  to  make  a  greater 
struggle  necessary.  210 

My  call  is  the  call  of  battle,  I  nourish  active 

rebellion, 

He  going  with  me  must  go  well  arm'd, 
He  going  with  me  goes  often  with  spare 

diet,  poverty,  angry  enemies,  desertions. 

'5 

Allons  !  the  road  is  before  us  ! 
It  is  safe  —  I  have  tried  it  —  my  own  feet 
have  tried  it  well  —  be  not  detain'd  ! 

Let  the  paper  remain  on  the  desk  unwritten, 
and  the  book  on  the  shelf  unopen'd  ! 

Let  the  tools  remain  in  the  workshop  !  let 
the  money  remain  unearn'd  ! 

Let  the  school  stand  !  mind  not  the  cry  of 
the  teacher  ! 


Let  the  preacher  preach  in  his  pulpit  !  let 
the  lawyer  plead  in  the  court,  and  the 
judge  expound  the  law. 

Camerado,  I  give  you  my  hand  !  220 

I  give  you  my  love  more  precious  than 

money, 

I  give  you  myself  before  preaching  or  law; 
Will  you  give  me  yourself  ?  will  you  come 

travel  with  me  ? 
Shall  we  stick  by  each  other  as  long  as  we 

live? 

1856. 

MIRACLES i 

WHY,  who  makes  much  of  a  miracle  ? 
As   to   me    I   know   of   nothing   else   but 

miracles, 

Whether  I  walk  the  streets  of  Manhattan, 
Or  dart  my  sight  over  the  roofs  of  houses 

toward  the  skv, 
Or  wade  with  naked  feet  along  the  beach 

just  in  the  edge  of  the  water, 
Or  stand  under  trees  in  the  woods, 
Or  talk  by  day  with  any  one  I  love,  or  sleep 

in  the  bed  at  night  with  any  one  I  love, 
Or  sit  at  table  at  dinner  with  the  rest, 
Or  look  at  strangers  opposite  me  riding  in 

the  car, 
Or  watch  honey-bees  busy  around  the  Tiive 

of  a  summer  forenoon, 
Or  animals  feeding  in  the  fields, 
Or  birds,  or  the  wonderfulness  of  insects  in 

the  air, 
Or  the  wonderfulness  of  the  sundown,  or 

of  stars  shining  so  quiet  and  bright, 
Or  the  exquisite  delicate  thin  curve  of  the 

new  moon  in  spring; 
These  with  the  rest,  one  and  all,  are  to  me 

miracles, 
The  whole  referring,  yet  each  distinct  and 

in  its  place.2 

1  In  the  1856  edition,  with  the  title  '  Poem  of  Perfect 
Miracles.'     In  its  first  form  the  poem   began  with  A 
paragraph  since  omitted  :  — 

Realism  is  mine,  my  miracles. 

Take  all  of  the  rest  —  take  freely  —  1  keep  but  my  own  —  I 

give  only  of  them, 
I  offer  them  without  end  —  I  offer  them  to  you  wherever  your 

feet  can  carry  you,  or  your  eyes  reach. 

2  Compare  the  original  Preface  to  Leaves  of  Grass. 
the  first  edition,  1855 :     '  .  .  .  every  motion  and  every 
spear  of  grass,  and  the  frames  and  spirits  of  men  and 
women  and  all  that  concerns  them,  are  unspeakably 
perfect  miracles,  all  referring  to  all,  and  each  distinct 
and  in  its  place.1 

See  also  the  longer  passage  at  the  end  of  the  fifth 
paragraph  of  this  Preface,  on  the  miracle  of  eyesight. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


553 


To  me  every  hour  of  the  light  and  dark  is 

a  miracle, 

Every  cubic  inch  of  space  is  a  miracle, 
Every  square  yard  of  the  surface  of  the 

earth  is  spread  with  the  same, 
Every  foot  of  the  interior  swarms  with  the 


To  me  the  sea  is  a  continual  miracle, 

The   fishes   that   swim  —  the   rocks  —  the 

motion  of   the   waves  —  the    ships   with 

men  in  them, 
What  stranger  miracles  are  there  ? 

1856. 


ASSURANCES1  . 

I  NEED  no  assurances,  I  am  a  man  who  is 
pre-occupied  of  his  own  soul ;  '2 

I  do  not  doubt  that  from  under  the  feet  and 
beside  the  hands  and  face  I  am  cogni- 
zant of,  are  now  looking  faces  I  am  not 
cognizant  of,  calm  and  actual  faces, 

I  do  not  doubt  but  the  majesty  and  beauty 
of  the  world  are  latent  in  any  iota  of  the 
world,  3 

I  do  not  doubt  I  am  limitless,  and  that  the 
universes  are  limitless,  in  vain  I  try  to 
think  how  limitless, 

I  do  not  doubt  that  the  orbs  and  the  sys- 
tems of  orbs  play  their  swift  sports 
through  the  air  on  purpose,  and  that  I 
shall  one  day  be  eligible  to  do  as  much 
as  they,  and  more  than  they,  4 

I  do  not  doubt  that  temporary  affairs  keep 
on  and  on  millions  of  years, 

I  do  not  doubt  interiors  have  their  interiors, 
and  exteriors  have  their  exteriors,  and 
that  the  eyesight  has  another  eyesight, 

1  In  the  1856  edition,  with  the  title  '  Faith  Poem ; '  in 
I860  as  No.  vii,  Leaves  of  Grass. 

»  In  the  1856  edition  there  followed  the  line  (omitted 
in  1867):  — 


3  In  the  1856  edition  there  followed  the  line  (omitted 
in  1867) :  — 

I  do  not  doubt  there  are  realizations  I  have  no  idea  of,  wait- 
ing for  me  through  time  and  through  the  universes  — also 
upon  this  earth. 

*  Here  followed,  in  the  1856  edition,  the  lines  (omitted 
in  1867) :  — 

I  do  not  doubt  there  is  far  more  in  trivialities,  insects,  vulgar 

persons,  slaves,  dwarfs,  weeds,  reiected  refuse,  than  I  have 

supposed  ; 
I  do  not  doubt  there  is  more  in  myself  than  I  have  supposed 

—  and  more  in  all  men  and  women  —and  more  in  my  poems 

than  I  have  supposed. 


and  the  hearing  another  hearing,  and  the 
voice  another  voice, 

I  do  not  doubt  that  the  passionately-wept 
deaths  of  young  men  are  provided  for, 
and  that  the  deaths  of  young  women  and 
the  deaths  of  little  children  are  provided 
for, 

(Did  you  think  Life  was  so  well  provided 
for,  and  Death,  the  purport  of  all  Life,  is 
not  well  provided  for  ?) 

I  do  not  doubt  that  wrecks  at  sea,  no 
matter  what  the  horrors  of  them,  no 
matter  whose  wife,  child,  husband,  father, 
lover,  has  gone  down,  are  provided  for, 
to  the  minutest  points, 5 

I  do  not  doubt  that  whatever  can  possibly 
happen  anywhere  at .  any  time,  is  pro- 
vided for  in  the  inherences  of  things, 

I  do  not  think  Life  provides  for  all  and  for 
Time  and  Space,  but  I  believe  Heavenly 
Death  provides  for  all.6 

1&56. 


CROSSING    BROOKLYN    FERRY7 


FLOOD-TIDE  below  me  !    I  see  you  face  to 

face! 
Clouds  of   the   west  —  sun  there  half   an 

hour  high  —  I  see  you  also  face  to  face. 

e  Here  followed,  in  1856,  the  lines  (omitted  in  1871)  : 

I  do  not  doubt  that  shallowness,  meanness,  malignance,  are 

•   provided  for; 

I  do  not  doubt  that  cities,  you,  America,  the  remainder  of  the 
earth,  politics,  freedom,  degradations,  are  carefully  pro- 
vided for. 

«  The  last  line  of  the  poem,  and  the  fourth  line  from 
the  end,  in  parenthesis,  appeared  first  in  the  edition  of 
1871,  where  the  poem  was  included  among  the  Whispers 
of  Heavenly  Death. 

7  Living  in  Brooklyn  or  New  York  city  from  this 
time  forward,  iny  life,  then,  and  still  more  the  follow- 
ing years,  was  curiously  identified  with  Fulton  ferry, 
already  becoming  the  greatest  of  its  sort  in  the  world 
for  general  importance,  volume,  variety,  rapidity,  and 
picturesqueness.  Almost  daily,  later  ('50  to  '60),  I 
cross'd  on  the  boats,  often  up  in  the  pilot-hofises  where 
I  could  get  a  full  sweep,  absorbing  shows,  accompani- 
ments, surroundings.  What  oceanic  currents,  eddies, 
underneath  —  the  great  tides  of  humanity  also,  with 
ever-shifting  movements  1  Indeed,  I  have  always  had  a 
passion  for  ferries;  to  me  they  afford  inimitable,  stream- 
ing, never-failing,  living  poems.  The  river  and  bay 
scenery,  all  about  New  York  island,  any  time  of  a  fine 
day  —  the  hurrying,  splashing  sea-tides  —  the  changing 
panorama  of  steamers,  all  sizes,  often  a  string  of  big 
ones  outward  bound  to  distant  ports  —  the  myriads  of 
white  sail'd  schooners,  sloops,  skiffs,  and  the  marvel- 
lously beautiful  yachts  — the  majestic  Sound  boats  as 
they  rounded  the  Battery  and  came  along  towards  5, 
afternoon,  eastward  bound  —  the  prospect  off  towards 
Staten  Island,  or  down  the  Narrows,  or  the  other  way 
up  the  Hudson  —  what  refreshment  of  spirit  such  sights 


554 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Crowds  of  men  and  women  attired  in  the 
usual  costumes,  how  curious  you  are  to 
me  ! 

On  the  ferry-boats  the  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds that  cross,  returning  home,  are 
more  curious  to  me  than  you  suppose, 

And  you  that  shall  cross  from  shure  to  shore 
years  hence  are  more  to  me,  and  more  in 
my  meditations,  than  you  might  suppose. 

2 

The  impalpable  sustenance  of  me  from  all 
things  at  all  hours  of  the  day, 

The  simple,  compact,  well-join'd  scheme, 
myself  disintegrated,  every  one  disin- 
tegrated yet  part  of  the  scheme, 

The  similitudes  of  the  past  and  those  of  the 
future, 

The  glories  strung  'like  beads  on  my  small- 
est sights  and  hearings,  on  the  walk  in 
the  street  and  the  passage  over  the  river, 

The  current  rushing  so  swiftly  and  swim- 
ming with  me  far  away,  10 

The  others  that  are  to  follow  me,  the  ties 
between  me  and  them, 

The  certainty  of  others,  the  life,  love,  sight, 
hearing  of  others. 

Others  will  enter  the  gates  of  the  ferry  and 

cross  from  shore  to  shore, 
Others  will  watch  the  run  of  the  flood-tide, 
Others  will  see  the  shipping  of  Manhattan 

north  and  west,  and  the  heights  of  Brook- 
lyn to  the  south  and  east, 
Others  will  see  the  islands  large  and  small; 
Fifty  years  hence,  others  will  see  them  as 

they  cross,  the  sun  half  an  hour  high, 
A  hundred  years   hence,  or  ever  so  many 

hundred   years    hence,    others    will   see 

them, 
Will  enjoy  the  sunset,  the  pouring-in  of  the 

flood-tide,  the  falling-back  to  the  sea  of 

the  ebb-tide. 


It  avails  not,   time   nor   place  —  distance 
avails  not,  20 

and  experiences  gave  me  years  ago  (and  many  a  time 
since)!  My  old  pilot  friends,  tlie  Balsirs,  Johnny 
Cole,  Ira  Smith.  William  White,  and  my  young  ferry 
friend,  Tom  Gere  —  how  well  I  remember  them  all ! 
(WHITMAN,  Specimen  Days.  Complete  Prose  Works, 
Small,  Maynard  &  Co.,  p.  11. ) 

In  185G  the  poem  was  entitled  '  Sun-down  Poem,'  and 
the  first  line  read:  — 


Flood-tide  of  the 


r,  flc 


i!  1  watch  you,  face  to  facel 


I  am  with  you,  you  men  and  women  of  a 

generation,  or  ever  so  many  generations 

hence, 
Just  as  you  feel  when  you  look  on  the  river 

and  sky,  so  I  felt, 
Just  as  any  of  you  is  one  of  a  living  crowd, 

I  was  one  of  a  crowd, 
Just  as  you  are  refresh'd  by  the  gladness 

of  the  river  and  the  bright  flow,  I  was 

refresh'd, 
Just  as  you  stand  and  lean  on  the  rail,  yet 

hurry  with  the  swift  current,  I  stood  yet 

was  hurried, 
Just  as  you  look  on  the  numberless  masts 

of  ships  and  the  thick-stemm'd  pipes  of 

steamboats,  I  look'd. 

I  too  many   and  many  a  time  cross'd  the 

river  of  old, 
Watched  the  Twelfth-month  sea-gulls,  saw 

them  high  in  the  air  floating  with  mo- 
tionless wings,  oscillating  their  bodies, 
Saw    how    the    glistening    yellow    lit    up 

parts  of  their  bodies  and  left  the  rest  in 

strong  shadow, 
Saw   the     slow-wheeling    circles   and   the 

gradual  edging  toward  the  south,  30 

Saw  the  reflection  of  the  summer  sky  in  the 

water, 
Had  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  shimmering 

track  of  beams, 
Look'd  at   the  fine   centrifugal  spokes  of 

light  round  the  shape  of  my  head  in  the 

sunlit  water, 
Look'd  on  the  haze  on  the  hills  southward 

and  south-westward, 
Look'd  on  the  vapor   as  it  flew  in  fleeces 

tinged  with  violet, 
Look'd  toward  the  lower  bay  to  notice  the 

vessels  arriving, 
Saw  their  approach,  saw  aboard  those  that 

were  near  me, 
Saw  the  white  sails  of  schooners  and  sloops, 

saw  the  ships  at  anchor, 
The  sailors  at   work  in  the  rigging  or  out 

astride  the  spars, 
The  round  masts,  the  swinging  motion  of 

the   hulls,   the   slender   serpentine   pen- 
nants, 40 
The  large  and   small  steamers  in  motion, 

the  pilots  in  their  pilot-houses, 
The  white  wake  left  by  the  passage,  the 

quick  tremulous  whirl  of  the  wheels, 
The  flags  of  all  nations,  the  falling  of  them 

at  sunset, 


WALT   WHITMAN 


555 


The  scallop-edged  waves  in  the  twilight, 
the  ladled  cups,  the  frolicsome  crests  and 
glistening, 

The  stretch  afar  growing  dimmer  and  dim- 
mer, the  gray  walls  of  the  granite  store- 
houses by  the  docks, 

On  the  river  the  shadowy  group,  the  big 
steam-tug  closely  flank'd  on  each  side  by 
the  barges,  the  hay-boat,  the  belated 
lighter, 

On  the  neighboring  shore  the  fires  from  the 
foundry  chimneys  burning  high  and  glar- 
ingly into  the  night, 

Casting  their  flicker  of  black  contrasted 
with  wild  red  and  yellow  light  over  the 
tops  of  houses,  and  down  into  the  clefts 
of  streets. 

4 

These  and  all  else  were  to  me  the  same  as 
they  are  to  you, 

I  loved  well  those  cities,  loved  well  the 
stately  and  rapid  river,  5o 

The  men  and  women  I  saw  were  all  near  to 
me, 

Others  the  same  —  others  who  look  back 
on  me  because  I  look'd  forward  to  them 

(The  time  will  come,  though  I  stop  here  to- 
day and  to-night). 

5 

What  is  it  then  between  us  ? 
What  is  the  count  of  the  scores  or  hundreds 
of  years  between  us  ? 

Whatever   it   is,    it   avails  not  —  distance 

avails  not,  and  place  avails  not, 
I  too  lived,  Brooklyn  of  ample  hills  was 

mine, 
I  too  walk'd  the  streets  of  Manhattan  island, 

and  bathed  in  the  waters  around  it, 
I  too  felt  the  curious  abrupt  questionings 

stir  within  me, 

In  the  day  among  crowds  of  people  some- 
times they  came  upon  me,  60 
In  my  walks  home  late  at  night  or  as  I  lay 

in  my  bed  they  came  upon  me, 
I  too  had  been  struck  from  the  float  forever 

held  in  solution, 

I  too  had  receiv'd  identity  by  my  body, 
That  I  was  I  knew  was  of  my  body,  and 

what  I  should  be  I  knew  I  should  be  of 

my  body. 

6 
It  is  not  upon  you  alone  the  dark  patches 

fall, 


The  dark  threw  its  patches  down  upon  me 

also, 
The  best  I  had  done  seem'd  to  me  blank 

and  suspicious, 
My  great  thoughts  as  I  supposed  them,  were 

they  not  in  reality  meagre  ? 
Nor  is  it  you  alone  who  know  what  it  is  to 

be  evil, 

I  am  he  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  evil,  7o 
I  too  knitted  the  old  knot  of  contrariety, 
Blabb'd,    blush'd,    resented,    lied,     stole, 

grudg'd, 
Had  guile,  anger,  lust,  hot  wishes  I  dared 

not  speak, 
Was  wayward,  vain,  greedy,  shallow,  sly, 

cowardly,  malignant, 
The  wolf,  the  snake,  the  hog,  not  wanting 

in  me, 
The  cheating  look,  the  frivolous  word,  the 

adulterous  wish,  not  wanting, 
Refusals,  hates,  postponements,  meanness, 

laziness,  none  of  these  wanting, 
Was  one  with  the  rest,  the  days  and  haps 

of  the  rest,1 
Was  call'd  by  my  nighest  name  by  clear 

loud  voices  of  young  men  as  they  saw  me 

approaching  or  passing, 
Felt  their  arms  on  my  neck  as  I  stood,  or 

the  negligent  leaning  of  their  flesh  against 

me  as  I  sat,  So 

Saw  many  I  loved  in  the  street  or  ferry-boat 

or  public  assembly,  yet  never  told  them 

a  word, 
Lived  the  same  life  with  the  rest,  the  same 

old  laughing,  gnawing,  sleeping, 
Play'd  the  part  that  still  looks  back  on  the 

actor  or  actress, 
The  same  old  role,  the  role  that  is  what  we 

make  it,  as  great  as  we  like, 
Or  as  small  as  we  like,  or  both  great  and 

small. 

7 

Closer  yet  I  approach  you, 
What  thought  you  have  of  me  now,  I  had 

as  much  of  you  —  I  laid  in  my  stores  in 

advance, 

I  consider'd  long  and  seriously  of  you  be- 
fore you  were  born. 

Who  was  to  know  what  should  come  home 

to  me? 

Who  knows  but  I  am  enjoying  this  ?         9? 
i  Instead  of  this  line  the  1856  edition  has  :  — 

But  I  was  a  Manhattanese,  free,  friendly,  and  proud  I 
and  this  line  begins  a  new  paragraph. 


556 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Who  knows,  for  all  the  distance,  but  I  am 
as  good  as  looking  at  you  now,  for  all 
you  cannot  see  me  ? 1 


Ah,  what  can  ever  be  more  stately  and  ad- 
mirable to  me  than  mast-hemm'd  Man- 
hattan ? 

River  and  sunset  and  scallop-edg'd  waves 
of  flood-tide  ? 

The  sea-gulls  oscillating  their  bodies,  the 
hay-boat  in  the  twilight,  and  the  belated 
lighter  ? 

What  gods  can  exceed  these  that  clasp  me 
by  the  hand,  and  with  voices  I  love  call 
me  promptly  and  loudly  by  my  nighest 
name  as  I  approach  ? 

What  is  more  subtle  than  this  which  ties 
me  to  the  woman  or  man  that  looks  in 
my  face  ? 

Which  fuses  me  into  you  now,  and  pours 
my  meaning  into  you  ?  2 

We  understand,  then,  do  we  not  ? 

What  I  promis'd  without  mentioning  it, 
have  you  not  accepted  ? 

What  the  study  could  not  teach—  what  the 
preaching  could  not  accomplish  is  accom- 
plish'd,  is  it  not  ?  3  100 


Flow  on,  river  !   flow  with  the  flood-tide, 

and  ebb  with  the  ebb-tide  ! 
Frolic  on,  crested  and  scallop-edg'd  waves  ! 
Gorgeous   clouds   of   the    sunset  !    drench 

with  your  splendor  me,  or  the  men  and 

women  generations  after  me  ! 
Cross  from  shore  to  short  .  countless  crowds 

of  passengers  ! 

1  There  follow  at  this  point  in  the  1856  edition  two 
other  brief  paragraphs  :  — 


t  is  not 
ot  a  fe 


you  alone,  nor  I  alone, 


emission,  without  fail,  either  now,  or  then,  or  henceforth. 

Everything  indicates  —  the  smallest  does,  and  the  largest 

does, 
A  necessary  film  envelops  all,  and  envelops  the  soul  for  a 

proper  time. 

These  lines  seem  necessary  to  the  understanding  of  line 
121,  which  has  been  retained  in  all  editions. 

J  Remember,  the  book  arose  out  of  my  life  in  Brook- 
lyn and  New  York  from  1838  to  1855,  absorbing  a  million 
people  with  an  intimacy,  an  eagerness,  an  abandon,  prob- 
ably never  equalled.  (WHITMAN,  Bucke's  Life,  p.  67.) 

3  In  the  1856  edition  this  paragraph  ends  with  a  line 
unhappily  omitted  from  the  latest  editions :  — 

could  not  start  is  started  by  me 


What  the  push  of  reading 
personally,  is  it  nor  't 


Stand  up,  tall  masts  of  Mannahatta  !  stand 

up,  beautiful  hills  of  Brooklyn  ! 
Throb,  baffled  and   curious  brain  !   throw 

out  questions  and  answers  ! 
Suspend  here  and  everywhere,  eternal  float 

of  solution  ! 
Gaze,  loving  and  thirsting  eyes,  in  the  house 

or  street  or  public  assembly  ! 
Sound  out,  voices  of  young  men  !  loudly  and 

musically  call  me  by  my  nighest  name  ! 
Live,  old  life  !    play  the  part   that   looks 

back  on  the  actor  or  actress  !  1 10 

Play  the  old  role,  the  role  that  is  great  or 

small  according  as  one  makes  it ! 
Consider,  you  who  peruse  me,  whether  I 

may  not   in  unknown  ways   be   looking 

upon  you; 
Be  firm,  rail  over  the  river,  to  support  those 

who  lean  idly,  yet  haste  with  the  hasting 

current; 
Fly  on,  sea-birds  !  fly  sideways,  or  wheel 

in  large  circles  high  in  the  air; 
Receive  the  summer  sky,  you  water,  and 

faithfully  hold  it  till  all  downcast  eyes 

have  time  to  take  it  from  you  ! 
Diverge,  fine    spokes   of   light,   from    the 

shape  of  my  head,  or  any  one's  head,  in 

the  sunlit  water  ! 
Come  on,  ships  from  the  lower  bay  !  pass 

up  or  down,  white-sail'd  schooners,  sloops, 

lighters  ! 
Flaunt  away,  flags  of  all  nations  !  be  duly 

lower'd  at  sunset  ! 
Burn  high  your  fires,  foundry  chimneys  ! 

cast  black  shadows  at  nightfall !  cast  red 

and  yellow  light  over  the  tops  of    the 

houses ! 
Appearances,  now  or  henceforth,  indicate 

what  you  are,  120 

You  necessary  film,  continue  to  em-elop  the 

soul, 
About  my  body  for  me,  and  your  body  for 

you,  be  hung  our  divinest  aromas, 
Thrive,  cities  —  bring  your  freight,   bring 

your  shows,  ample  and  sufficient  rivers, 
Expand,  being  than  which  none  else  is  per- 
haps more  spiritual, 
Keep  your  places,  objects  than  which  none 

else  is  more  lasting.4 

4  At  this  point  a  paragraph  has  been  omitted  from 
the  1881  and  later  editions :  — 

We  descend  upon  you  and  all  things,  we  arrest  you  all, 

We  realize  the  soul  only  by  you,  you  faithful  solids  and 

fluids. 

Through  you  color,  form,  location.  sublimity,  ideality. 
Through  you  every  proof,  comparison,  and  nil  the  sugges- 
tions and  determinations  of  ourselves. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


557 


You  have  waited,  you  always  wait,  you 
dumb,  beautiful  ministers, 

We  receive  you  with  free  sense  at  last,  and 
are  insatiate  henceforward, 

Not  you  any  more  shall  be  able  to  foil  us, 
or  withhold  yourselves  from  us, 

We  use  you,  and  do  not  cast  you  aside  —  we 
plant  you  permanently  within  us, 

We  fathom  you  not  —  we  love  you  —  there 
is  perfection  in  you  also,  130 

You  furnish  your  parts  toward  eternity, 

Great  or  small,  you  furnish  your  parts  to- 
ward the  soul. 


OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE   END- 
LESSLY  ROCKING1 

OUT  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking, 

Out  of  the  mocking-bird's  throat,  the  musi- 
cal shuttle, 

Out  of  the  Ninth- month  midnight, 

Over  the  sterile  sands  and  the  fields  be- 
yond, where  the  child  leaving  his  bed 
wander'd  alone,  bareheaded,  barefoot, 

Down  from  the  shower'd  halo, 

Up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows  twin- 
ing and  twisting  as  if  they  were  alive, 

Out  from  the  patches  of  briers  and  black- 
berries, 

From  the  memories  of  the  bird  that  chanted 
to  me, 

From  your  memories  sad  brother,  from  the 
fitful  risings  and  fallings  I  heard, 

From  under  that  yellow  half-moon  late- 
risen  and  swollen  as  if  with  tears,  10 

From  those  beginning  notes  of  yearning 
and  love  there  in  the  mist, 

From  the  thousand  responses  of  my  heart 
never  to  cease, 

From  the  myriad  thence-arous'd  words, 

From  the  word  stronger  and  more  delicious 
than  any, 

From  such  as  now  they  start  the  scene  re- 
visiting, 

As  a  flock,  twittering,  rising,  or  overhead 


1  First  published  in  the  New  York  Saturday  Press, 
December  24,  1859.  with  the  title  'A  Child's  Reminis- 
cence.' In  1860  it  appears  with  the  new  title,  '  A  Word 
Out  of  the  Sea,'  for  the  whole  poem,  and  with  the  sub- 
title, '  Reminiscences,'  for  the  part  beginning  with  the 
second  paragraph. 

In  the  earlier  versions,  up  to  1S71,  the  first  line 
read:  — 

Out  of  the  rocked  cradle. 


Borne  hither,  ere  all  eludes  me,  hurriedly, 
A  man,  yet  by  these   tears  a   little   boy 

again, 
Throwing  myself  on  the  sand,  confronting 

the  waves, 
I,  chanter  of  pains  and  joys,  uniter  of  here 

and  hereafter,  20 

Taking  all  hints  to  use  them,  but  swiftly 

leaping  beyond  them, 
A  reminiscence  sing. 

Once  Paumanok, 

When  the  lilac-scent  was  in  the  air  2  and 

Fifth-month  grass  was  growing, 
Up  this  seashore  in  some  briers, 
Two  feather'd  guests  from  Alabama,  two 

together, 
And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs 

spotted  with  brown, 
And  every  day  the  he-bird  to  and  fro  near 

at  hand, 
And  every  day  the  she-bird  crouch'd  on  her 

nest,  silent,  with  bright  eyes, 
And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too 

close,  never  disturbing  them,  30 

Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

Shine  !  shine  !  shine  ! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  sun  ! 

While  we  bask,  we  two  together. 

Two  together  ! 

Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north, 

Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 

Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 

Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 

While  we  two  keep  together.  40 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

May-be  kill'd,  unknown  to  her  mate, 

One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouch'd  not  on 

the  nest, 

Nor  return'd  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 
Nor  ever  appear'd  again. 

And    thenceforward    all    summer   in    the 

sound  of  the  sea, 
And  at  night  under  the  full  of  the  moon 

in  calmer  weather, 
Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 
Or  flitting  from  brier  to  brier  by  day, 
I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals  the  remaining 

one,  the  he-bird,  5« 

The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

*  When  the  snows  had  melted.    (1859-60.) 


558 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Blow!  blow!  blow! 

Blow  up  sea-winds  along  Paumanok's  shore; 

I  wait  and  I  wait  till  you  blow  my  mate  to 


Yes,  when  the  stars  glisten'd, 

All  night  long  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scal- 

lop'd  stake, 

Down  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 
Sat  the  lone  singer  wonderful  causing  tears. 

He  call'd  on  his  mate, 

He  pour'd  forth  the  meanings  which  I  of 
all  men  know.  60 

Yes  my  brother  I  know, 

The  rest  might  not,  but  I  have  treasur'd 

every  note, 
For  more   than   once   dimly  down  to  the 

beach  gliding, 
Silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending 

myself  with  the  shadows, 
Recalling    now   the    obscure    shapes,   the 

echoes,  the  sounds  and  sights  after  their 

sorts, 

The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tire- 
lessly tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting 

my  hair, 
Listen'd  long  and  long. 

Listen'd  to  keep,  to  sing,  now  translating 

the  notes, 
Following  you  my  brother.  70 

Soothe!  soothe!  soothe! 
Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind. 
And  again  another  behind  embracing  and  lap- 
ping, every  one  close, 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  the  moon,  it  rose  late, 
It  is  lagging  —  O  I  think  it  is  heavy  with  love, 
with  love. 

O  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love. 

O  night  I  do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out 

among  the  breakers  ? 
What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in 

the  white  f  80 

Loud!  loud!  loud! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love  ! 


High   and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the 

waves, 

Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here, 
You  must  knoio  who  I  am,  my  love. 

Low-hanging  moon  ! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow  f 

O  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate  ! 

0  moon  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

Land  I  land  !  O  land  !  9o 

Whichever  way  1  turn,  0  I  think  you  could 
give  me  my  mate  back  again  if  you  only 
would, 

For  I  am  almost  sure  f  see  her  dimly  which- 
ever way  I  look. 

0  rising  stars  ! 

Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so  much  will  rise,  will 
rise  with  some  of  you. 

0  throat !  0  trembling  throat ! 
Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere  ! 
Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth, 
Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you  must  be  the 
one  I  want. 

Shake  out  carols  ! 

Solitary  here,  the  night's  carols  I  100 

Carols  of  lonesome  love!  death's  carols! 
Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning 

moon  1 
0  under  that  moon  where  she  droops  almost 

down  into  the  sea  ! 
0  reckless  despairing  carols. 

But  soft !  sink  low  ! 

Soft  !  let  me  just  murmur, 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment  you  husky-nois'd 
sea, 

For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  re- 
sponding to  me, 

So  faint,  I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen, 

But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not 
come  immediately  to  me.  no 

Hither  my  love .' 
Here  I  am !  here  ! 

With  this  just-sustain  'd  note  I  announce  my- 
self to  you, 
This  gentle  call  is  for  you  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  be  decoy1  d  elsewhere, 

That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind,  it  is  not  mj 


WALT  WHITMAN 


559 


That  is   the  fluttering,   the  fluttering  of  the 

spray, 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

O  darkness  !     0  in  vain  ! 

O  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful.  120 

0  brown   halo  in   the  sky  near  the   moon, 

drooping  upon  the  sea  ! 
O  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea  ! 
0  throat  !     0  throbbiny  heart ! 
And   I  singing  uselessly,   uselessly   all  the 

night. 

O  past !    0  happy  life  !    0  songs  of  joy  ! 
In  the  air,  in  the  icoods,  over  fields, 
Loved !  loved  !  loved  !  loved  !   loved  ! 
But  my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me  ! 
We  two  together  no  more. 

The  aria  sinking,  130 

All  else  continuing1,  the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing,  the  notes  of  the  bird 
continuous  echoing, 

With  angry  moans  the  fierce  old  mother  in- 
cessantly moaning, 

On  the  sands  of  Paumanok's  shore  gray 
and  rustling, 

The  yellow  half-moon  enlarged,  sagging 
down,  drooping,  the  face  of  the  sea  al- 
most touching, 

The  boy  ecstatic,  with  his  bare  feet  the 
waves,  with  his  hair  the  atmosphere  dal- 
lying. 

The  love  in  the  heart  long  pent,  now  loose, 
now  at  last  tuniultuously  bursting, 

The  aria's  meaning,  the  ears,  the  soul, 
swiftly  depositing, 

The  strange  tears  down  the  cheeks 
coursing, 

The  colloquy  there,  the  trio,  each  uttering, 

The  undertone,  the  savage  old  mother  in- 
cessantly crying,  141 

To  the  boy's  soul's  questions  sullenly 
timing,  some  drown'd  secret  hissing, 

To  the  outsetting  bard. 

Demon  or  bird  (said  the  boy's  soul)  ! 

Is  it  indeed  toward  your  mate  you  sing  ? 

or  is  it  really  to  me  ? 
For  I,  that  was  a  child,  my  tongue's  use 

sleeping,  now  I  have  heard  you, 
Now  in  a  moment  I  know  what  I  am  for,  I 

awake, 
And  already  a  thousand  singers,  a  thousand 


songs,  clearer,  louder  and  more  sorrowful 
than  yours, 

A  thousand  warbling  echoes  have  started 
to  life  within  me,  never  to  die. 

O  you  singer  solitary,  singing  by  yourself, 

projecting  me,  150 

O  solitary  me  listening,  never  more  shall  I 

cease  perpetuating  you, 
Never  more  shall  I  escape,  never  more  the 

reverberations, 
Never  more  the  cries  of  unsatisfied  love  be 

absent  from  me, 
Never  again  leave  me  to  be  the  peaceful 

child  I  was  before  what  there  in  the  night, 
By  the  sea  under  the  yellow  and  sagging 

moon, 
The  messenger  there  arous'd,  the  fire,  the 

sweet  hell  within, 
The  unknown  want,  the  destiny  of  me. 

O  give  me  the   clew  (it  lurks  in  the  night 

here  somewhere)  ! 
O  if  I  am  to  have  so  much,  let  me  have  more  ! 

A  word  then  (for  I  will  conquer  it),        160 
The  word  final,  superior  to  all, 
Subtle,  sent  up  —  what  is  it  ?  —  I  listen; 
Are  you  whispering  it,  and  have  been  all 

the  time,  you  sea-waves  ? 
Is  that  it   from  your   liquid  rims  and  wet 

sands  ? 

Whereto  answering,  the  sea, 
Delaying  not,  hurrying  not, 
Whisper'd  me  through  the  night,  and  very 

plainly  before  daybreak, 
Lisp'd  to  me  the  low  and  delicious  word 


And  again  death,  death,  death,  death, 

Hissing  melodious,  neither  like  the  bird  nor 
like  my  arous'd  child's  heart,  170 

But  edging  near  as  privately  for  me  rus- 
tling at  my  feet, 

Creeping  thence  steadily  up  to  my  ears  and 
laving  me  softly  all  over, 

Death,  death,  death,  death,  death. 

Which  I  do  not  forget, 

But  fuse  the  song  of  my  dusky  demon  and 
brother, 

That  he  sang  to  me  in  the  moonlight  on 
Paumanok's  gray  beach, 

With  the  thousand  responsive  songs  at  ran- 
dom, 


560 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


My  own  songs  awaked  from  that  hour, 
And  with  them  the  key,  the  word  up  from 

the  waves, 
The  word    of    the  sweetest  song  and   all 

songs,  1 80 

That     strong    and    delicious  word  which, 

creeping  to  my  feet, 
(Or  like  some  old  crone  rocking  the  cradle, 

swathed    in    sweet    garments,   bending 

aside,) 
The  sea  whisper'd  me. 

1859.  (I860.)! 


FACING  WEST    FROM  CALIFOR- 
NIA'S SHORES2 

FACING  west  from  California's  shores, 

Inquiring,  tireless,  seeking  what  is  yet  un- 
found, 

I,  a  child,  very  old,  over  waves,  towards 
the  house  of  maternity,  the  land  of  mi- 
grations, look  afar, 

Look  off  the  shores  of  my  Western  sea,  the 
circle  almost  circled; 

For  starting  westward  from  Hindustan, 
from  the  vales  of  Kashmere, 

From  Asia,  from  the  north,  from  the  God, 
the  sage,  and  the  hero, 

From  the  south,  from  the  flowery  penin- 
sulas and  the  spice  islands, 

Long  having  wander'd  since,  round  the 
earth  having  wander'd, 

Now  I  face  home  again,  very  pleas'd  and 
joyous. 

(But  where  is  what  I  started  for  so  long 
ago? 

And  why  is  it  yet  unf  ound  ?) 


I    HEAR  AMERICA   SINGING 

I  HEAR  America  singing,  the  varied  carols 

I  hear, 
Those  of  mechanics,  each  one  singing  his  as 

it  should  be  blithe  and  strong, 
The  carpenter  singing  his  as  he  measures  his 

plank  or  beam, 

1  For  Whitman  the  date  of  publication  in  book  form 
is  the  most  important.  This  has  therefore  been  added, 
in  parentheses,  when  the  poem  was  published  earlier 
in  a  periodical. 

1  In  the  1860  edition,  without  separate  sub-title,  as 
No.  10  of  the  section  entitled  Enjans  tfAdam.  In 
this  edition  the  poem  began  with  what  is  now  the  sec- 
ond line.  The  first  line  was  added  in  1867. 


The  mason  singing  his  as  he  makes  ready 
for  work,  or  leaves  off  work, 

The  boatman  singing  what  belongs  to  him 
in  his  boat,  the  deckhand  singing  on  the 
steamboat  deck, 

The  shoemaker  singing  as  he  sits  on  his 
bench,  the  hatter  singing  as  he  stands, 

The  wood-cutter's  song,  the  ploughboy's  on 
his  way  in  the  morning,  or  at  noon  inter- 
mission or  at  sundown, 

The  delicious  singing  of  the  mother,  or  of 
the  young  wife  at  work,  or  of  the  girl 
sewing  or  washing, 

Each  singing  what  belongs  to  him  or  her 
and  to  none  else, 

The  day  what  belongs  to  the  day  —  at 
night  the  party  of  young  fellows,  robust, 
friendly, 

Singing  with  open  mouths  their  strong  me- 
lodious songs. 


POETS    TO    COME 

POETS  to  come  !  orators,  singers,  musicians 
to  come ! 

Not  to-day  is  to  justify  me  and  answer  what 
I  am  for, 

But  you,  a  new  brood,  native,  athletic,  con- 
tinental, greater  than  before  known, 

Arouse  !  for  you  must  justify  me. 

I  myself  but  write  one  or  two  indicative 

words  for  the  future, 
I  but  advance  a  moment  only  to  wheel  and 

hurry  back  in  the  darkness. 

I  am  a  man  who,  sauntering  along  without 
fully  stopping,  turns  a  casual  look  upon 
you  and  then  averts  his  face, 
Leaving  it  to  you  to  prove  and  define  it, 
Expecting  the  main  things  from  you. 

1860. 


ME   IMPERTURBE 

ME  imperturbe,  standing  at  ease  in  Nature, 
Master  of  all  or  mistress  of  all,  aplomb  in 

the  midst  of  irrational  things, 
Imbued  as  they,  passive,  receptive,  silent 

as  they, 
Finding  my  occupation,  poverty,  notoriety, 

foibles,   crimes,   less   important   than   I 

thought, 


WALT   WHITMAN 


Me  toward  the  Mexican  sea,  or  in  the  Man- 
nahatta  or  the  Tennessee,  or  far  north  or 
inland, 

A  river  man,  or  a  man  of  the  woods  or  of 
any  farm-life  of  these  States  or  of  the 
coast,  or  the  lakes  of  Kanada, 

Me  wherever  my  life  is  lived,  O  to  be  self- 
balanced  for  contingencies, 

To  confront  night,  storms,  hunger,  ridicule, 
accidents,  rebuffs,  as  the  trees  and  ani- 
mals do. 

1860. 

FOR   YOU   O    DEMOCRACY1 

COME,  I  will  make  the  continent  indissol- 
uble, 

I  will  make  the  most  splendid  race  the  sun 
ever  shone  upon, 

1  This  and  the  eight  following  poems  belong  to  the 
section  of  Whitman's  work  devoted  to  the  celebration 
of  '  the  dear  love  of  comrades,'  and  entitled  '  Calauuis." 
'  The  Sweet  Flag  or  Calamus,'  says  W.  S.  Kennedy,  in 
explaining  Whitman's  use  of  this  title,  '  belongs  among 
the  grasses,  and  like  them  suggests  equality  and  broth- 
erhood. It  is  found  in  vast  masses  in  marshy  ground, 
growing  in  fascicles  of  three,  four,  or  five  blades, 
which  cling  together  for  support,  shoulder  to  shoulder 
and  back  to  back,  the  delicate  "  pink-tinged  "  roots 
exhaling  a  faint  fragrance,  not  only  when  freshly 
gathered,  but  after  having  been  kept  many  years.' 

should  be  read  the  volume  entitled 


With  these  poems  ! 
Calamus,  a  Serifs  of  Letters  written  during  the  Year 
/  Walt  Whitman  to  a  Young  Friend: 


'  For  you  O  Democracy '  is  a  revised  and  improved 
version  of  the  last  lines  of  a  much  longer  poem  with  the 
title  '  States,'  in  the  1860  edition,  the  whole  of  which  is 
worth  preserving :  — 
STATES  ! 

Were  you  looking  to  be  held  together  by  the  lawyers  ? 
By  an  agreement  on  a  paper  ?    Or  by  arms  ? 


me  be  much  done  for  you. 

There  shall  from  me  be  a  new  friendship  —  It  shall  be  called 

after  my  name, 

It  shall  circulate  through  The  States,  indifferent  of  place. 
It  shall  twist  and  intertwist  them  through  and  around  each 

other  —  Compact  shall  they  be,  showing  new  signs. 
Affection  shall  solve  every  one  of  the  problems  of  freedom. 
Those  who  love  each  other  shall  be  invincible. 
They  shall  finally  make  America  completely  victorious,  in 

my  name. 

One  from  Massachusetts  shall  be  comrade  to  a  Missonrian. 
One  from  Maine  or  Vermont,  and  a  Carolinian  and  an  Ore- 

gonese,  shall  be  friends  triune,  more  precious  to  each  other 

than  all  the  riches  of  the  earth. 
To  Michigan  shall  be  wafted  perfume  from  Florida, 
To  the  Mannahatta  from  Cuba  or  Mexico, 
Ho*  the  perfume  of  flowers,  but  sweeter,  and  wafted  beyond 

death. 

No  danger  shall  balk  Columbia's  lovers, 

If  need  be,  a  thousand  shall  sternly  immolate  themselves 


I  will  make  divine  magnetic  lands, 
With  the  love  of  comrades, 

With  the  life-long  love  of  comrades. 

I  will  plant  companionship  thick  as  trees 
along  all  the  rivers  of  America,  and 
along  the  shores  of  the  great  lakes,  and 
all  over  the  prairies, 

I  will  make   inseparable  cities  with  theii 
arms  about  each  other's  necks, 
By  the  love  of  comrades, 

By  the  manly  love  of  comrades. 

For  you  these  from  me,  O  Democracy,  to 

serve  you  ma  femme  ! 
For  you,  for  you  I  am  trilling  these  songs. 

1860. 

RECORDERS  AGES    HENCE 

RECORDERS  ages  hence,2 

Come,  I  will  take  you   down   underneath 

this    impassive  exterior,  I  will  tell  you 

what  to  say  of  me, 
Publish  my  name  and  hang  up  my  picture 

as  that  of  the  tenderest  lover, 
The  friend  the  lover's  portrait,  of  whom 

his  friend  his  lover  was  fondest, 


It  shall  be  customary   in  all  directions,  in  the  houses  and 
shall  salute  the  remaining 


There  shall  be  innovations, 

There  shall  be  countless  linked  hands  —  namely,  the  North- 
easterner's,  and  the  North  westerner's,  and  the  South- 
westerner's,  and  those  of  the  interior,  and  all  their  brood, 

These  shall  be  masters  of  the  world  under  a  new  power. 

They  shall  laugh  to  scorn  the  attacks  of  all  the  remainder  of 
the  world. 

ntless  and  rude  shall  touch  face  to  face  lightly, 


These  shall  tie  and  band  stronger  than  hoops  of  iron, 
I,  ecstatic,  O  partners  1  O  lands  !  henceforth  with  the  love  of 
lovers  tie  you. 


I  will  make  divin 


splendid  race  the  sun  ever  yet  shone 
agnetic  lands 


of  America,  and  along  the  shores  of  the  great  lakes,  and  all 
over  the  prairies, 

I  will  make  inseparable  cities,  Tith  their  arms  about  each 
other's  necks. 


For  you  !  for  you,  I  am  trilling  these  songs. 
'  Instead  of  this  line:  the  edition  of  I860  reads :  — 

You  bards  of  ages  hence  J  when  you  refer  to  me,  mind  not  i 

much  my  poems, 
Nor  speak  of  me  that  I  prophesied  of  The  States,  ind  1< 

them  the  way  of  their  glories. 


CHIEF  AMERICAN  POETS 


Who  was  not  proud  of  his  songs,  but  of  the 
measureless  ocean  of  love  within  him, 
and  freely  pour'd  it  forth, 

Who  often  walk'd  lonesome  walks  thinking 
of  his  dear  friends,  his  lovers, 

Who  pensive  away  from  one  he  lov'd  often 
lay  sleepless  and  dissatisfied  at  night, 

Who  knew  too  well  the  sick,  sick  dread  lest 
the  one  he  lov'd  might  secretly  be  indif- 
ferent to  him, 

Whose  happiest  days  were  far  away  through 
fields,  in  woods,  on  hills,  he  and  another 
wandering  hand  in  hand,  they  twain  apart 
from  other  men, 

Who  oft  as  he  saunter'd  the  streets  curv'd 
with  his  arm  the  shoulder  of  his  friend, 
while  the  arm  of  his  friend  rested  upon 
him  also. 

1860. 

WHEN  I  HEARD  AT  THE  CLOSE 
OF  THE  DAY 

WHEN  I  heard  at  the  close  of  the  day  how 

my  name  had  been  receiv'd  with  plaudits 

in  the  capitol,  still  it  was  not  a  happy 

night  for  me  that  follow'd, 
And   else  when  I  carous'd,   or  when   my 

plans  were  accomplished,  still  I  was  not 

happy, 
But  the  day  when  I  rose  at  dawn  from  the 

bed  of  perfect  health,  refresh'd,  singing, 

inhaling  the  ripe  breath  of  autumn, 
When  I   saw  the  full   moon   in  the  west 

grow  pale  and  disappear  in  the  morning 

light, 
When  I  wander'd  alone   over  the  beach, 

and  undressing  bathed,  laughing  with  the 

cool  waters,  and  saw  the  sun  rise, 
And  when  I  thought  how  my  dear  friend 

my  lover  was  on  his  way  coming,  O  then 

I  was  happy, 

0  then  each  breath  tasted  sweeter,  and  all 
that  day  my  food  nourish'd  me  more,  and 
the  beautiful  day  pass'd  well, 

And  the  next  came  with  equal  joy,  and  with 
the  next  at  evening  came  my  friend, 

And  that  night  while  all  was  still  I  heard 
the  waters  roll  slowly  continually  up  the 
shores, 

1  heard  the  hissing  rustle  of  the  liquid  and 

sands  as  directed  to  me  whispering  to 
congratulate  me, 

For  the  one  I  love  most  lay  sleeping  by  me 
under  the  same  cover  in  the  cool  night, 


In  the  stillness  in  the  autumn   moonbeams 
his  face  was  inclined  toward  me, 

And  his  arm  lay  lightly  around  my  breast 
—  and  that  night  I  was  happy. 

1860. 


I    SAW    IN    LOUISIANA   A   LIVE- 
OAK   GROWING 

I  SAW  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing, 

All  alone  stood  it  and  the  moss  hung  down 
from  the  branches. 

Without  any  companion  it  grew  there  utter- 
ing joyous  leaves  of  dark  green, 

And  its  look,  rude,  unbending,  lusty,  made 
me  think  of  myself, 

But  I  wonder'd  how  it  could  utter  joyous 
leaves  standing  alone  there  without  its 
friend  near,  for  I  knew  I  could  not, 

And  I  broke  off  a  twig  with  a  certain  num- 
ber of  leaves  upon  it,  and  twined  around 
it  a  little  moss, 

And  brought  it  away,  and  I  have  placed 
it  in  sight  in  my  room, 

It  is  not  needed  to  remind  me  as  of  my 
own  dear  friends, 

(For  I  believe  lately  I  think  of  little  else 
than  of  them,) 

Yet  it  remains  to  me  a  curious  token,  it 
makes  me  think  of  manly  love ; 

For  all  that,  and  though  the  live-oak  glis- 
tens there  in  Louisiana  solitary  in  a  wide 


Uttering  joyous  leaves  all  its  life  without  a 

friend  a  lover  near, 
I  know  very  well  I  could  not. 

1860. 


I    HEAR   IT   WAS   CHARGED 
AGAINST   ME 

I  HEAR  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I 

sought  to  destroy  institutions, 
But  really  I  am  neither  for  nor  against  in- 
stitutions, 
(What  indeed  have  I  in  common  with  them  ? 

or  what  with  the  destruction  of  them  ?) 
Only  I  will  establish   in   the  Mannahatta 

and  in  every  city  of  these  States  inland 

and  seaboard, 
And  in  the    fields   and  woods,  and   above 

every  keel  little  or  large  that  dents  the 

water, 


WALT  WHITMAN 


563 


Without  edifices  or  rules  or  trustees  or  any 

argument, 
The  institution  of  the  dear  love  of  com- 


rades. 


1860. 


THE   PRAIRIE-GRASS  DIVIDING 

THE  prairie-grass  dividing,  its  special  odor 
breathing, 

I  demand  of  it  the  spiritual  corresponding, 

Demand  the  most  copious  and  close  com- 
panionship of  men, 

Demand  the  blades  to  rise  of  words,  acts, 
beings, 

Those  of  the  open  atmosphere,  coarse,  sun- 
lit, fresh,  nutritious, 

Those  that  go  their  own  gait,  erect,  step- 
ping with  freedom  and  command,  leading 
not  following, 

Those  with  a  never-quell'd  audacity,  those 
with  sweet  and  lusty  flesh  clear  of  taint, 

Those  that  look  carelessly  in  the  faces  of 
Presidents  and  governors,  as  to  say  Who 
are  you  f 

Those  of  earth-born  passion,  simple,  never 
constrain'd,  never  obedient, 

Those  of  inland  America.1 


1  If  you  care  to  have  a  word  from  me,  I  should  speak 
it  about  these  very  prairies  ;  they  impress  me  most,  of 
all  the  objective  shows  I  have  seen  on  this,  my  first 
real  visit  to  the  West.  ...  As  I  have  .  .  .  launch'd 
my  view  across  broad  expanses  of  living  green,  in  every 
direction — I  have  again  been  most  impress'd,  I  say, 
and  shall  remain  for  the  rest  of  my  life  most  impress'd, 
with  .  .  .  that  vast  Something,  stretching  out  on  its 
own  unbounded  scale,  unconfiued,  which  there  is  in 
these  prairies,  combining  the  real  and  the  ideal,  and 
beautiful  as  dreams. 

I  wonder  indeed  if  the  people  of  this  continental  in- 
land West  know  how  much  of  first-class  art  they  have 
in  these  prairies  —  how  original  and  all  your  own  — 
how  much  of  the  influences  of  a  character  for  your  fu- 
ture humanity,  broad,  patriotic,  heroic,  and  new  ?  how 
entirely  they  tally  on  land  the  grandeur  and  superb 
monotony  of  the  skies  of  heaven,  and  the  ocean  with 
its  waters  ?  how  freeing,  soothing,  nourishing  they  are 
to  the  soul? 

Then  is  it  not  subtly  they  who  have  given  us  our  lead- 
ing .modern  Americans,  Lincoln  and  Grant?  —  vast- 
spread,  average  men  —  their  foregrounds  of  character 
altogether  practical  and  real,  yet  (to  those  who  have 
eyes  to  see)  with  finest  backgrounds  of  the  ideal,  tow- 
ering high  as  any.  And  do  we  not  see,  in  them,  fore- 
shadowings  of  the  future  races  that  shall  fill  these 
prairies  ? 

Not  but  what  the  Yankee  and  Atlantic  State-,  and 
every  other  part  —  Texas,  and  the  States  flanking  the 
south-east  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  —  the  Pacific  shore 
empire  —  the  Territories  and  Lakes,  and  the  Canada 
line  (the  day  is  not  yet,  but  it  will  come,  including 
Canada  entire)  —  are  equally  and  integrally  and  indis- 


WHEN    I    PERUSE   THE   CON- 
QUER'D   FAME 

WHEN  I  peruse  the  conquer'd  fame  of  he 
roes  and  the  victories  of  mighty  generals 
I  do  not  envy  the  generals, 

Nor  the  President  in  his  Presidency,  nor 
the  rich  in  his  great  house, 

But  when  I  hear  of  the  brotherhood  of  lov- 
ers, how  it  was  with  them, 

How  together  through  life,  through  dan- 
gers, odium,  unchanging,  long  and  long, 

Through  youth  and  through  middle  and  old 
age,  how  unfaltering,  how  affectionate 
and  faithful  they  were, 

Then  I  am  pensive  —  I  nastily  walk  away 
fill'd  with  the  bitterest  envy. 

I860. 


I    DREAM'D    IN   A   DREAM2 

I  DREAM'D  in  a  dream  I  saw  a  city  invin- 
cible to  the  attacks  of  the  whole  of  the 
rest  of  the  earth, 

I  dream'd  that  was  the  new  city  of  Friends, 

solubly  this  Nation,  the  sine  qua  non  of  the  human,  po- 
litical and  commercial  New  World.  But  this  favor'd 
central  area  of  (in  round  numbers)  two  thousand  miles 
square  seems  fated  to  be  the  home  both  of  what  I  would 
call  America's  distinctive  ideas  and  distinctive  realities. 
(WHITMAN,  Specimen  Days,  '  The  Prairies.'  Complete 
Prose  Works,  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.,  pp.  134,  135.) 

*  Intense  and  loving  comradeship,  the  personal  and 
passionate  attachment  of  man  to  man  —  which,  hard  to 
define,  underlies  the  lessons  and  ideals  of  the  profound 
saviours  of  every  land  and  age,  and  which  seems  to 
promise,  when  thoroughly  develop'd,  cultivated  and 
recognized  in  manners  and  literature,  the  most  sub- 
stantial hope  and  safety  of  the  future  of  these  States, 
will  then  [when  the  true  poet  comes]  be  fully  express'd. 

A  strong  fibred  joyousness  and  faith,  and  the  sense 
of  health  alfresco,  may  well  enter  into  the  preparation 
of  future  noble  American  authorship.  .  .  . 

It  is  to  the  development,  identification,  and  general 
prevalence  of  that  fervid  comradeship  (the  adhesive 
love,  at  least  rivaling  the  amative  love  hitherto  possess- 
ing imaginative  literature,  if  not  going  beyond  it),  that 
I  look  for  the  counterbalance  and  offset  of  our  mate- 
rialistic and  vulgar  American  democracy,  and  for  the 
spiritualization  thereof.  Many  will  say  it  is  a  dream, 
and  will  not  follow  my  inferences  :  but  I  confidently 
expect  a  time  when  there  will  be  seen,  running  like  a 
half-hid  warp  through  all  the  myriad  audible  and  visi- 
ble worldly  interests  of  America,  threads  of  manly 
friendship,  fond  and  loving,  pure  and  sweet,  strong  and 
life-long,  carried  to  degrees  hitherto  unknown  —  not 
only  giving  tone  to  individual  character,  and  making 
it  unprecedently  emotional,  muscular,  heroic,  and  re- 
fined, but  having  the  deepest  relations  to  general  pol- 
itics. I  say  democracy  infers  such  loving  comradeship, 
as  its  most  inevitable  twin  or  counterpart,  without 
which  it  will  be  incomplete,  in  vain,  and  incapable  of 
perpetuating  itself 

In  my  opinion,  it  is  by  a  fervent,  accepted  develop- 


564 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Nothing  was  greater  there  than  the  quality 

of  robust  love,  it  led  the  rest, 
It  was  seen  every  hour  in  the  actions  of  the 

men  of  that  city, 
And  in  all  their  looks  and  words. 

1860. 


FULL  OF    LIFE   NOW 

FULL  of  life  now,  compact,  visible, 

I,  forty  years  old  the  eighty-third  year  of 

the  States, 
To  one  a  century  hence  or  any  number  of 

centuries  hence, 
To  you  yet  unborn  these,  seeking  you. 

When  you  read  these  I  that  was  visible  am 

become  invisible, 
Now  it  is  you,  compact,  visible,  realizing 

my  poems,  seeking  me, 
Fancying  how  happy  you  were  if  I  could  be 

with  you  and  become  your  comrade ; 
Be  it  as  if  I  were  with  you.    (Be  not  too 

certain  but  I  am  now  with  you.) 


TO   ONE   SHORTLY   TO    DIE 

FROM(  all  the  rest  I  single  out  you,  having 

a  message  for  you, 
You  are  to  die  —  let  others  tell  you  what 

they  please,  I  cannot  prevaricate, 
t  am  exact  and  merciless,  but  I  love  you  — 

there  is  no  escape  for  you. 

Softly  I  lay  my  right  hand  upon  you,  you 
just  feel  it, 

I  do  not  argue,  I  bend  my  head  close  and 
half  envelop  it, 

I  sit  quietly  by,  I  remain  faithful, 

I  am  more  than  nurse,  more  than  parent  or 
neighbor, 

I  absolve  you  from  all  except  yourself 
spiritual  bodily,  that  is  eternal,  you  your- 
self will  surely  escape, 

The  corpse  you  will  leave  will  be  but 
excrementitious. 

ment  of  comradeship,  the  beautiful  and  sane  affection  of 
man  for  man,  latent  in  all  the  young  fellows,  north  and 
south,  east  and  west  —  it  is  by  this,  I  say,  and  by  what 
goes  directly  and  indirectly  along  with  it,  that  the 
United  States  of  the  future  (I  cannot  too  often  repeat), 
are  to  be  most  effectually  welded  together,  intercalated, 
anneal'd  into  a  living  union.  (WHITMAN,  in  his  Preface 
to  the  1876  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass.  Complete 
Prose  Works,  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.,  pp.  239,  240,  and 
277.  278.) 


The   sun  bursts   through  in  unlooked-for 

directions, 
Strong  thoughts  fill   you   and   confidence, 

you  smile, 
You  forget  you  are  sick,  as  I  forget  you 

are  sick, 
You  do  not  see  the  medicines,  you  do  not 

mind   the   weeping   friends,  I  am  with 

you, 

I  exclude  others  from  you,  there  is  nothing 

to  be  commiserated, 
I  do  not  commiserate,  I  congratulate  you. 


NIGHT   ON   THE   PRAIRIES  » 

NIGHT  on  the  prairies, 

The  supper  is  over,  the  fire  on  the  ground 

burns  low, 
The  wearied  emigrants  sleep,  wrapt  in  their 

blankets; 
I  walk  by  myself  —  I  stand  and  look  at  the 

stars,  which  I  think  now  I  never  realized 

before. 

Now  I  absorb  immortality  and  peace, 
I  admire  death  and  test  propositions. 

How  plenteous !  how  spiritual  !  how  re- 
sume" ! 

The  same  old  man  and  soul  —  the  same  old 
aspirations,  and  the  same  content. 

I  was  thinking  the  day  most  splendid  till  I 
saw  what  the  not-day  exhibited, 

I  was  thinking  this  globe  enough  till  there 
sprang  out  so  noiseless  around  me  myri- 
ads of  other  globes. 

Now  while  the  great  thoughts  of  space  and 
eternity  fill  me  I  will  measure  myself  by 
them, 


1  The  germ  of  this  poem  is  found  in  a  loose  note  of 
Whitman's :  '  Idea  of  poem.  Day  and  night.  Namely, 
celebrate  the  beauty  of  Day,  with  all  its  splendor,  the 
sun  —  life  —  action  —  Love  —  strength.  The  Night  with 
its  beauty.. .  . ' 

Compare  also  the  passages  from  Whitman's  Prose 
Works  quoted  or  referred  to  in  the  note  on  '  When  I 
heard  the  learn'd  astronomer ; '  especially  the  passage 
in  Specimen  Days  under  date  of  July  22,  1878.  Com- 
plete Prose  Works,  pp.  Ill,  112. 

Whitman  was  acquainted  with  Blanco  White's  fa- 
mous sonnet  on  this  same  idea.  Among  his  clippings 
he  preserved  a  copy  of  it,  on  the  margin  of  which  he 
h»d  written  :  '  What  life  hides  too !  '  (Notes  and  Frig- 
m'*s,  p.  104.) 


WALT   WHITMAN 


565 


And    now  touch'd  with  the  lives  of  other 

globes  arrived  as  far  along  as  those  of 

the  earth, 
Or  waiting  to  arrive,  or  pass'd  on  farther 

than  those  of  the  earth, 
I  henceforth  no  more  ignore  them  than  I 

ignore  my  own  life, 
Or  the  lives  of  the  earth  arrived  as  far  as 

mine,  or  waiting  to  arrive. 

0  I  see  now  that  life  cannot  exhibit  all  to 
me,  as  the  day  cannot, 

1  see  that  I  am  to  wait  for  what  will  be 
exhibited  by  death. 

1860. 


O    MAGNET-SOUTH1 

O  MAGNET-SOUTH  !  O  glistening  perfumed 

South  !  my  South  ! 
O   quick  mettle,  rich  blood,  impulse  and 

love  !    good  and  evil !    O   all   dear  to 

me! 
O  dear  to  me  my  birth-things  —  all  moving 

things  and  the  trees  where  I  was  born 

—  the  grains,  plants,  rivers, 
Dear  to  me  my  own  slow  sluggish  rivers 

where   they  flow,  distant,  over  flats  of 

silvery  sands  or  through  swamps, 
Dear  to  me  the  Roanoke,  the  Savannah,  the 

Altamahaw,  the  Pedee,  the  Tombigbee, 

the  Santee,  the  Coosa  and  the  Sabine, 

0  pensive,  far  away  wandering,  I  return  with 
my  soul  to  haunt  their  banks  again, 

Again  in  Florida  I  float  on  transparent 
lakes,  I  float  on  the  Okeechobee,  I  cross 
the  hummock-land  or  through  pleasant 
openings  or  dense  forests, 

1  see  the  parrots  in  the  woods,  I  see  the 
papaw-tree  and  the  blossoming  titi; 

\gain,  sailing  in  my  coaster  on  deck,  I 
coast  off  Georgia,  I  coast  up  the  Caro- 
linas, 

I  see  where  the  live-oak  is  growing,  I  see 
where  the  yellow-pine,  the  scented  bay- 
tree,  the  lemon  and  orange,  the  cypress, 
the  graceful  palmetto, 

I  pass  rude  sea-headlands  and  enter  Pam- 
lico  sound  through  an  inlet,  and  dart  my 
vision  inland; 

O  the  cotton  plant!  the  growing  fields  of 
rice,  sugar,  hemp  ! 

1  In  the  1860  edition,  with  the  title  '  Longings  for 
Home.1 


The  cactus  guarded  with  thorns,  the  laurel- 
tree  with  large  white  flowers, 

The  range  afar,  the  richness  and  barrenness, 
the  old  woods  charged  with  mistletoe  and 
trailing  moss, 

The  piuey  odor  and  the  gloom,  the  awful 
natural  stillness,  (here  in  these  dense 
swamps  the  freebooter  carries  his  gun, 
and  the  fugitive  has  his  conceal'd  hut; ) 

O  the  strange  fascination  of  these  half- 
known  half-impassable  swamps,  infested 
by  reptiles,  resounding  with  the  bellow  of 
the  alligator,  the  sad  noises  of  the  night- 
owl  and  the  wild-cat,  and  the  whirr  of 
the  rattlesnake, 

The  mocking-bird,  the  American  mimic, 
singing  all  the  forenoon,  singing  through 
the  moon-lit  night, 

The  humming-bird,  the  wild  turkey,  the 
raccoon,  the  opossum; 

A  Kentucky  corn-field,  the  tall,  graceful, 
long-leav'd  corn,  slender,  flapping,  bright 
green,  with  tassels,  with  beautiful  ears 
each  well-sheath'd  in  its  husk; 

O  my  heart !  O  tender  and  fierce  pangs,  I 
can  stand  them  not,  I  will  depart; 

O  to  be  a  Virginian  where  I  grew  up !  O  to 
be  a  Carolinian  ! 

O  longings  irrepressible  !  O  I  will  go  back 

to  old  Tennessee  and  never  wander  more. 

1860. 


MANNAHATTA' 

I  WAS  asking  for  something  specific  and 

perfect  for  my  city, 
Whereupon   lo !    upsprang  the   aboriginal 

name. 


2  Compare  '  Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry,'  '  A  Broadway 
Pageant,'  'Give  me  the  Splendid  Silent  Sun,'  and  the 
following  passages  from  Whitman's  Specimen  Days  :  — 

June  25.  —  Returned  to  New  York  last  night.  Out  to- 
day on  the  waters  for  a  sail  in  the  wide  bay,  southeast 
of  Staten  island,  —  a  rough,  tossing  ride,  and  a  free 
sight  — the  long  stretch  of  Sandy  Hook,  the  highlands 
of  Navesink,  and  the  many  vessels  outward  and  inward 
bound.  We  came  up  through  the  midst  of  all,  in  the  full 
sun.  I  especially  enjoy'd  the  last  hour  or  two.  A  mod- 
erate sea-breeze  had  set  in ;  yet  over  the  city,  and  the 
waters  adjacent,  was  a  thin  haze,  concealing  nothing 
only  adding  to  the  beauty.  From  my  point  of  view,  as 
I  write  amid  the  soft  breeze,  with  a  sea-temperature, 
surely  nothing  on  earth  of  its  kind  can  go  beyond  this 
show.  To  the  left  the  North  river  with  its  far  vista  — 
nearer,  three  or  four  war-ships,  anchor'd  peacefully  — 
the  Jersey  side,  the  banks  of  Weehawken,  the  Palisades, 
and  the  gradually  receding  blue,  lost  in  the  distance  — 
to  the  right  the  East  river— the  mast-hemm'd  shorn 


566 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Now  I  see  what  there  is  in  a  name,  a  word, 
liquid,  sane,  unruly,  •  musical,  self -suffi- 
cient, 

I  see  that  the  word  of  my  city  is  that  word 
from  of  old, 


—  the  grand  obelisk -like  towers  of  the  bridge,  one  on 
either  side,  in  haze,  yet  plainly  defln'd,  giant  brothers 
twain,  throwing  free  graceful  interlinking  loops  high 
across  the  tumbled  tumultuous  current  below  (the  tide 
IB  just  changing  to  its  ebb) — the   broad  water-spread 
everywhere  crowded  —  no,  not  crowded,  but  thick  as 
stars  in  the  sky  — with  all  sorts  and  sizes  of  sail  aud 
steam  vessels,  plying  ferry-boats,  arriving  and  departing 
coasters,  great  ocean  Dons,  iron-black,  modern,  mag- 
nificent in  size  and  power,  fill'd  with  their  incalculable 
value  of  human  life  and  precious  merchandise  —  with 
here  and  there,  above  all,  those  daring,  careening  things 
of  grace  and  wonder,  those  white  and  shaded  swift-dart- 
ing fish-birds  (I  wonder  if  shore  or  sea  elsewhere  can 
outvie  them),  ever  with  their  slanting  spars,  and  fierce, 
pure,   hawk-like  beauty  and  motion— first-class  New 
York  sloop  or  schooner  yachts,  sailing,  this  fine  day,  the 
free  sea  in  a  good  wind.   And  rising  out  of  the  midst, 
tall-topt,  ship-hemm'd,  modern,  American,  yet  strangely 
oriental,  V-shaped  Manhattan,  with  its  compact  mass, 
its  spires,  its  cloud-touching  edifices  group'd  at  the 
centre  —  the  green  of  the  trees,  and  all  the  white,  brown 
and  gray  of  the  architecture  well  blended,  as  I  see  it, 
under  a  miracle  of  limpid  sky,  delicious  light  of  heaven 
above,  and  June  haze  on  the  surface  below. 

HUMAN  AND  HEROIC  NEW  YORK.  —  The  general  subjec- 
tive view  of  New  York  and  Brooklyn  (will  not  the 
time  hasten  when  the  two  shall  be  municipally  united 
in  one,  and  named  Manhattan  ?)  —  what  I  may  call  the 
human  interior  and  exterior  of  these  great  seething 
oceanic  populations,  as  I  get  it  in  this  visit,  is  to  me 
best  of  all.  After  an  absence  of  many  years  (I  went 
away  at  the  outbreak  of  the  secession  war,  and  have 
never  been  back  to  stay  since),  again  I  resume  with 
curiosity  the  crowds,  the  streets,  I  knew  so  well,  Broad- 
way, the  ferries,  the  west  side  of  the  city,  democratic 
Bowery  - —  human  appearances  and  manners  as  seen  in 
all  these,  and  along  the  wharves,  and  in  the  perpetual 
travel  of  the  horse-cars,  or  the  crowded  excursion 
steamers,  or  in  Wall  and  Nassau  streets  by  day  —  in 
the  places  of  amusement  at  night  —  bubbling  and  whirl- 
ing and  moving  like  its  own  environment  of  waters  — 
endless  humanity  in  all  phases  —  Brooklyn  also  —  taken 
in  for  the  last  three  weeks.  No  need  to  specify  minutely 

—  enough  to  say  that  (making  all  allowances  for  the 
shadows  and  side-streaks  of  a  million-headed-city)  the 
brief  total  of  the  impressions,   the  human  qualities, 
of  these  vast  cities,  is  to  me  comforting,  even  heroic, 
beyond  statement.   Alertness,  generally  fine  physique, 
clear  eyes  that  look  straight  at  you,  a  singular  combi- 
nation of  reticence  and  self-possession,  with  good  nature 
and  friendliness— a  prevailing  range  of  according  man- 
ners, taste  and  intellect,  surely  beyond  any  elsewhere 
upon  earth  —  and  a  palpable  out-cropping  of  that  per- 
sonal comradeship  I  look  forward  to  as  the  subtlest, 
strongest  future  hold  of  this  many-item'd  Unio 

not  only  constantly  visible  here  in  these  migh 
nels  of  men,  but  they  form  the  rule  and  average.  To- 
day, I  should  say  — defiant  of  cynics  and  pessimists, 
and  with  a  full  knowledge  of  all  their  exceptions  —  an 
appreciative  and  perceptive  study  of  the  current  hu- 
manity of  New  York  gives  the  directest  proof  yet  of 
successful  Democracy,  and  of  the  solution  of  that  para- 
dox, the  eligibility  of  the  free  and  fully  developed  in- 
dividual with  the  paramount  aggregate.  In  old  age, 
lame  and  sick,  pondering  for  years  on  many  a  doubt 
and  danger  for  this  republic  of  ours  —  fully  aware  of 
all  that  can  be  said  on  the  other  side  —  I  find  in  this 


Because  I  see  that  word  nested  in  nests  of 

water-bays,  superb, 
Rich,  hemm'd  thick  all  around  with  sailships 

and  steamships,  an  island  sixteen  miles 

long,  solid-founded, 
Numberless  crowded  streets,  high  growths 

of  iron,  slender,  strong,  light,  splendidly 

uprising  toward  clear  skies, 
Tides  swift  and  ample,  well-loved  by  me, 

toward  sundown, 
The  flowing  sea-currents,  the  little  islands, 

larger  adjoining  islands,  the  heights,  the 

villas, 

The  countless  masts,  the  white  shore-steam- 
ers, the  lighters,  the  ferry-boats,  the  black 

sea-steamers  well-model'd. 
The  down-town  streets,  the  jobbers'  houses 

of  business,  the  houses  of  business  of  the 

ship-merchants  and  money-brokers,  the 

river-streets, 

Immigrants  arriving,  fifteen  or  twenty  thou- 
sand hi  a  week, 
The  carts  hauling  goods,  the  manly  face 

of   drivers   of   horses,   the   brown-faced 

sailors, 
The  summer  air,  the  bright  sun  shining,  and 

the  sailing  clouds  aloft, 
The   winter    snows,   the    sleigh-bells,   the 

broken  ice  in  the  river,  passing  along  up 

or  down  with  the  flood-tide  or  ebb-tide, 
The  mechanics   of   the  city,  the   masters, 

well-form 'd,  beautiful-faced,  looking  you 

straight  in  the  eyes, 
Trottoirs  throng 'd,  vehicles,  Broadway,  the 

women,  the  shops  and  shows, 
A  million  people  —  manners  free  and  superb 

—  open  voices  —  hospitality  —  the   most 

courageous  and  friendly  young  men, 
City  of  hurried  and  sparkling  waters  !  city 

of  spires  and  masts  ! 
City  nested  in  bays  !  my  city  ! 

1860. 

visit  to  New  York,  and  the  daily  contact  and  rapport 
with  its  myriad  people,  on  the  scale  of  the  oceans  and 
tides,  the  best,  most  effective  medicine  my  soul  has  yet 
partaken  —  the  grandest  physical  habitat  and  surround- 
ings of  land  and  water  the  globe  affords  — namely, 
Manhattan  island  and  Brooklyn,  which  the  future  shall 
join  in  one  city  —  city  of  superb  democracy,  amid  su- 
perb surroundings.  (Complete  Prose  Works,  Small, 
Maynard  &  Co.,  pp.  109-111.) 

See  also  Specimen  Days,  May  24,  1879,  '  Two  City 
Areas,  Certain  Hours,'  Prose  Works,  pp.  12G,  127  :  May 
16  to  22,  '  Central  Park  Walks  and  Talks,'  Prose  Works, 
pp.  128,  129:  July  29,  1881,  'My  Passion  for  Ferries,' 
'  Broadway  Sights,'  '  Omnibus  Jaunts,'  Prose  Works, 
pp.  11-13 ;  and  also  the  Collect,  Prose  Works,  pp.  205, 
206,  quoted  in  part  in  the  note  on  '  Give  me  the  splen- 
did silent  sun,'  p.  578. 


WALT  WHITMAN 


567 


MYSELF  AND  MINE 

MYSELF  and  mine  gymnastic  ever, 

To  stand  the  cold  or  heat,  to  take  good  aim 

with  a  gun,  to  sail  a  boat,  to  manage 

horses,  to  beget  superb  children, 
To   speak   readily  and  clearly,  to  feel  at 

home  among  common  people, 
And  to  hold  our  own  in  terrible  positions 

on  land  and  sea. 

Not  for  an  embroiderer, 

(There  will  always  be  plenty  of  embroider- 
ers, I  welcome  them  also,) 

But  for  the  fibre  of  things  and  for  inherent 
men  and  women. 

Not  to  chisel  ornaments, 

But  to  chisel  with  free  stroke  the  heads 
and  limbs  of  plenteous  supreme  Gods, 
that  the  States  may  realize  them  walking 
and  talking. 

Let  me  have  my  own  way,  10 

Let  others  promulge  the  laws,  I  will  make 

no  account  of  the  laws, 
Let  others  praise  eminent  men  and  hold  up 

peace,  I  hold  up  agitation  and  conflict, 
I  praise  no  eminent  man,  I  rebuke  to  his 

face  the  one  that  was  thought  most  wor- 

thy. 

(Who  are  you  ?  and  what  are  you  secretly 

guilty  of  all  your  life  ? 
Will  you  turn  aside  all  your  life  ?  will  you 

grub  and  chatter  all  your  life  ? 
And  who  are  you,  blabbing  by  rote,  years, 

pages,  languages,  reminiscences, 
Unwitting  to-day   that   you   do  not   know 

how  to  speak  properly  a  single  word  ?) 

Let  others  finish  specimens,  I  never  finish 

specimens, 
I  start  them  by  exhaustless  laws  as  Nature 

does,  fresh  and  modern  continually. 

I  give  nothing  as  duties,  20 

What  others  give  as  duties  I  give  as  living 

impulses, 
(Shall  I  give  the  heart's  action  as  a  duty  ?) 

Let  others  dispose  of  questions,  I  dispose  of 
nothing,  I  arouse  unanswerable  questions, 

Who  are  they  I  see  and  touch,  and  what 
about  them  ? 


What  about  these  likes  of  myself  that  draw 
me  so  close  by  tender  directions  and  in' 
directions  ? 

I  call  to  the  world  to  distrust  the  accounts 

of  my  friends,  but  listen  to  my  enemies, 

as  I  myself  do, 
I  charge  you  forever  reject  those  who  would 

expound  me,  for  I  cannot  expound  myself, 
I  charge  that  there  be  no  theory  or  school 

founded  out  of  me, 
I  charge  you  to  leave  all  free,  as  I  have  left 

all  free. 

After  me,  vista  !  30 

0  I  see  life  is  not  short,  but  immeasurably 
long, 

1  henceforth  tread  the  world  chaste,  tem- 
perate, an  early  riser,  a  steady  grower, 

Every  hour  the  semen  of  centuries,  and 
still  of  centuries. 

I  must  follow  up  these  continual  lessons  of 

the  air,  water,  earth, 
I  perceive  I  have  no  time  to  lose. 

1860. 

A    BROADWAY    PAGEANT 


OVER  the  Western  sea  hither  from  Niphon ' 


Courteous,  the  swart-cheek'd  two-sworded 
envoys, 

Leaning  back  in  their  open  barouches,  bare- 
headed, impassive, 

Ride  to-day  through  Manhattan.2 

Libertad  !  I  do  not  know  whether  others  be- 

hold  what  I  behold, 
In  the  procession  along  with  the  nobles  of 

Niphon,  the  errand-bearers, 
Bringing   up    the    rear,    hovering    above. 

around,  or  in  the  ranks  marching, 
But  I  will  sing  you  a  song  of  what  I  behold 

Libertad. 

1  Nippon,  the  native  name  of  Japan. 

2  In  the  edition  of  1865  the  poem  begins :  — 

A  BROADWAY  PAGEANT 
(Reception  Japanese  Embassy,  June  16, 1860.) 
Over  sea,  hither  from  Niphon, 

Courteous,  the  Princos  of  Asia,  swart-cheek'd  princes, 
First-comers,  guests,  two-sworded  princes, 
Lesson-giving  princes,  leaning  back  in  their  open  barouches, 

bare-headed,  impassive, 
This  day  they  ride  through  Manhattan 


568 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


When    million-footed    Manhattan    unpent 

descends  to  her  pavements, 
When  the  thunder-cracking  guns  arouse  me 

with  the  proud  roar  I  love,  10 

When  the  round-mouth'd  guns  out  of  the 

smoke  and  smell  I  love  spit  their  salutes, 
When    the    fire-flashing   guns   have    fully 

alerted  me,  and  heaven-clouds  canopy  my 

city  with  a  delicate  thin  haze, 
W'hen  gorgeous  the  countless  straight  stems, 

the  forests  at  the  wharves,  thicken  with 

colors, 
When  every  ship  richly  drest  carries  her 

flag  at  the  peak, 
When   pennants   trail   and   street-festoons 

hang  from  the  windows, 
When  Broadway  is   entirely  given  up   to 

foot-passengers  and  foot-standers,  when 

the  mass  is  densest, 
When  the  facades  of  the  houses  are  alive 

with  people,  when  eyes  gaze  riveted  tens 

of  thousands  at  a  time, 
When  the  guests  from  the  islands  advance, 

when  the  pageant  moves.forward  visible, 
When  the  summons  is  made,  when  the  an- 
swer that  waited  thousands  of  years  an- 
swers, 
I  too  arising,  answering,  descend   to   the 

pavements,  merge  with  the  crowd,  and 

gaze  with  them,  20 


Superb-faced  Manhattan  ! 
Comrade  Americanos  !  to  us,  then  at  last 
the  Orient  comes. 

To  us,  my  city, 

Where  our  tall-topt  marble  and  iron  beau- 
ties range  on  opposite  sides,  to  walk  in 
the  space  between, 

To-day  our  Antipodes  comes. 

The  Originatress  comes, l 

The  nest  of  languages,  the  bequeather  of 
poems,  the  race  of  eld, 

Florid  with  blood,  pensive,  rapt  with  mus- 
ings, hot  with  passion. 

Sultry  with  perfume,  with  ample  and  flow- 
ing garments, 

With  sunburnt  visage,  with  intense  soul  and 
glittering  eyes,  30 

The  race  of  Brahma  comes. 

1  Here  follows,  in  the  original  edition  :  — 

1  the  Caucasus  —  the  nest  of 


See  my  cantabile  !  these  and  more  are  flash- 
ing to  us  from  the  procession, 

As  it  moves  «hanging,  a  kaleidoscope  divine 
it  moves  changing  before  us. 

For  not  the  envoys  nor  the  tann'd  Japanee 
from  his  island  only,2 

Lithe  and  silent  the  Hindoo  appears,  the 
Asiatic  continent  itself  appears,  the  past, 
the  dead, 

The  murky  night-morning  of  wonder  and 
fable  inscrutable, 

The  envelop'd  mysteries,  the  old  and  un- 
known hive-bees, 

The  north,  the  sweltering  south,  eastern 
Assyria,  the  Hebrews,  the  ancient  of 
ancients, 

Vast  desolated  cities,  the  gliding  present, 
all  of  these  and  more  are  in  the  pageant- 
procession. 

Geography,  the  world,  is  in  it,  40 

The  Great  Sea,  the  brood  of  islands,  Poly- 
nesia, the  coast  beyond, 

The  coast  you  henceforth  are  facing  — 
you  Libertad  !  from  your  Western  golden 
shores, 

The  countries  there  with  their  popula- 
tions, the  millions  en-masse  are  curiously 
here, 

The  swarming  market-places,  the  temples 
with  idols  ranged  along  the  sides  or  at 
the  end,  bonze,  brahmin,  and  llama, 

Mandarin,  farmer,  merchant,  mechanic,  and 
fisherman, 

The  singing-girl  and  the  dancing-girl,  the 
ecstatic  persons,  the  secluded  emperors, 

Confucius  himself,  the  .great  poets  and 
heroes,  the  warriors,  the  castes,  all,8 

Trooping  up,  crowding  from  all  directions, 
from  the  Altay  mountains, 

From  Thibet,  from  the  four  winding  and 
far-flowing  rivers  of  China, 

From  the  southern  peninsulas  and  the  demi- 
continental  islands,  from  Malaysia,  50 

These  and  whatever  belongs  to  them  pal- 
pable show  forth  to  me,  and  are  seiz'd 
by  me, 

1  In  the  original  edition  this  line  reads :  — 


»  In  the  original  edition  these  two  lines  read:  — 
The  singing-girl   and  the  dancing-girl  —the  ecstatic  person 

-the  divine  Buddha; 
The  secluded  Emperors  —  Confucius    himself  —  t 

poets  and  heroes  —  the  warriors,  the 


self  —  the    grea 
s,  all. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


569 


And  I  am  seiz'd  by  them,  and  friendlily 

held  by  them, 
Till  as  here  them   all   I  chant,  Libertad  ! 

for  themselves  and  for  you. 

For  I  too  raising  my  voice  join  the  ranks 
of  this  pageant, 

I  am  the  chanter,  I  chant  aloud  over  the 
pageant, 

I  chant  the  world  on  my  Western  sea, 

1  chant  copious  the  islands  beyond,  thick 
as  stars  in  the  sky, 

I  chant  the  new  empire  grander  than  any 
before,  as  in  a  vision  it  comes  to  me, 

I  chant  America  the  mistress,  I  chant  a 
greater  supremacy, 

I  chant  projected  a  thousand  blooming 
cities  yet  in  time  on  those  groups  of  sea- 
islands,  60 

My  sail-ships  and  steam-ships  threading 
the  archipelagoes, 

My  stars  and  stripes  fluttering  in  the  wind, 

Commerce  opening,  the  sleep  of  ages  hav- 
ing done  its  work,  races  reborn,  re- 
fresh'd, 

Lives,  works  resumed  —  the  object  I  know 
not  —  but  the  old,  the  Asiatic  renew'd  as 
it  must  be, 

Commencing  from  this  day  surrounded  by 
the  world. 


And  you  Libertad  of  the  world  ! 

You  shall  sit  in  the  middle  well-pois'd 
thousands  and  thousands  of  years, 

As  to-day  from  one  side  the  nobles  of  Asia 
come  to  you, 

As  to-morrow  from  the  other  side  the 
queen  of  England  sends  her  eldest  son 
to  you. 

The  sign  is  reversing,  the  orb  is  enclosed,  7o 

The  ring  is  circled,  the  journey  is  done, 

Th«  box-lid  is  but  perceptibly  open'd,  never- 
theless the  perfume  pours  copiously  out 
of  the  whole  box. 

Young  Libertad  !  with  the  venerable  Asia, 

the  all-mother. 
Be  considerate  with  her  now  and  ever  hot 

Libertad,  for  you  are  all, 
Bend   your    proud     neck   to   the   long-off 

mother  now  sending  messages  over  the 

archipelagoes  to  you, 
Bend  your  proud  neck  low  for  once,  young 

Libertad. 


Were  the  children  straying  westward  so 

long  ?  so  wide  the  tramping  ? 
Were  the  precedent  dim  ages  debouching 

westward  from  Paradise  so  long  ? 
Were  the  centuries  steadily  footing  it  that 

way,  all  the  while  unknown,  for  you,  for 

reasons  ? 

They  are  justified,  they  are  accomplish'd, 
they  shall  now  be  turn'd  the  other  way 
also,  to  travel  toward  you  thence,  80 

They  shall  now  also  march  obediently  east- 
ward for  your  sake  Libertad.1 

1860.  1865. 


PIONEERS!    O  PIONEERS! 

COME  my  tan-faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get   your  weapons 

ready, 

Have  you   your   pistols  ?   have  you  your 
sharp-edged  axes  ? 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers  ! 

For  we  cannot  tarry  here, 
We  must  march  my  darlings,  we  must  bear 

the  brunt  of  danger, 

We  the  youthful  sinewy  races,  all  the  rest 
on  us  depend, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

O  you  youths,  Western  youths, 
So  impatient,  full  of  action,  full  of  manly 
pride  and  friendship,  10 

Plain  I  see  you  Western  youths,  we  you 
tramping  with  the  foremost, 
Pioneers !    O  pioneers  ! 

Have  the  elder  races  halted  ? 
Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied 
over  there  beyond  the  seas  ? 

1  THB  EAST.  —  What  a  subject  for  a  poem  !  Indeed, 
where  else  a  more  pregnant,  more  splendid  one  ? 
Where  one  more  idealistic-real,  more  subtle,  more  sen- 
suous-delicate ?  The  East,  answering  all  lands,  all 
ages,  peoples;  touching  all  senses,  here,  immediate, 
now— and  yet  BO  indescribably  far  off  —  such  retro- 
spect !  The  East  —  long-stretching  —  so  losing  itself  — 
the  orient,  the  gardens  of  Asia,  the  womb  of  history 
and  song  — forth-issuing  all  those  strange,  dim  caval- 
cades- 
Florid  with  blood,  pensive,  rapt  with  musings,  hot  with 

Sultry  with  perfume,  with  ample  and  flowing  garments, 
With  sunburnt  visage,  intense  soul  and  glittering  eyes. 

Always  the  East  —  old,  how  incalculably  old !  And 
yet  here  the  same  —  ours  yet,  fresh  as  a  rose,  to  every 
morning,  every  life,  to-day  —  and  always  will  be. 
(WHITMAN,  Specimen  Days.  Complete  Prose  Works, 
pp.  112,  113.) 


57° 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  bur- 
den and  the  lesson, 

Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 

All  the  past  we  leave  behind, 
We  debouch  upon  a  newer  mightier  world, 

varied  world, 

Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world 
of  labor  and  the  march, 

Pioneers  !   O  pioneers  !  20 

We  detachments  steady  throwing, 
Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes,  up  the 

mountains  steep, 

Conquering,  holding,  daring,  venturing  as 
we  go  the  unknown  ways, 
Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 

We  primeval  forests  felling, 
We  the  rivers   stemming,  vexing  we  and 

piercing  deep  the  mines  within, 
We  the  surface  broad  surveying,  we  the 
virgin  soil  upheaving, 

Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 

Colorado  men  are  we, 

From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great 
sierras  and  the  high  plateaus,  3o 

From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from 
the  hunting  trail  we  come, 
Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

From  Nebraska,  from  Arkansas, 
Central  inland  race  are  we,  from  Missouri, 

with  the  continental  blood  intervein'd, 
All  the  hands  of  comrades  clasping,  all  the 
Southern,  all  the  Northern, 
Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 

O  resistless  restless  race  ! 
0  beloved  race  in  all !  O  my  breast  aches 

with  tender  love  for  all  ! 
O  I  mourn  and  yet  exult,  I  am  rapt  with 
love  for  all, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers !  4o 

Raise  the  mighty  mother  mistress, 
Waving  high  the  delicate  mistress,  over  all 
the  starry  mistress  (bend  your  heads  all), 
Raise  the  fang'd  and  warlike  mistress,  stern, 
impassive,  weapon'd  mistress, 
Pioneers  !    O  pioneers  ! 

See  my  children,  resolute  children, 
By  those  swarms  upon  our  rear  we  must 
never  yield  or  falter, 


Ages   back  in   ghostly   millions  frowning 
there  behind  us  urging, 

Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 

On  and  on  the  compact  ranks, 
With   accessions   ever   waiting,    with    the 
places  of  the  dead  quickly  fill'd,  so 

Through  the  battle,  through  defeat,  moving 
yet  and  never  stopping, 

Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 

0  to  die  advancing  on  ! 

Are  there  some  of  us  to  droop  and  die  ?  has 

the  hour  come  ? 
Then  upon  the  march  we  fittest  die,  soon 

and  sure  the  gap  is  fill'd, 
Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

All  the  pulses  of  the  world, 
Falling  in  they  beat  for  us,  with  the  West- 
ern movement  beat, 

Holding  single  or  together,  steady  moving 
to  the  front,  all  for  us, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers !  60 

Life's  involv'd  and  varied  pageants, 
All  the  forms  and  shows,  all  the  workmen 

at  their  work, 

All  the  seamen  and  the  landsmen,  all  the 
masters  with  their  slaves, 
Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

All  the  hapless  silent  lovers, 
All   the  prisoners  in   the  prisons,  all  the 

righteous  and  the  wicked, 
All  the  joyous,  all  the  sorrowing,  all  the 
living,  all  the  dying. 

Pioneers  !   O  pioneers ! 

1  too  with  my  soul  and  body, 

We,  a  curious  trio,  picking,  wandering  01. 

our  way,  70 

Through  these  shores  amid  the  shadows, 

with  the  apparitions  pressing,  • 

Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 


orb  ! 
1  the  cluster- 


Lo,  the  darting  bowling 
Lo,  the  brother  orbs  around,  all 

ing  suns  and  planets, 

All  the  dazzling  days,  all  the  mystic  nights 
with  dreams, 

Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 

These  are  of  us,  they  are  with  us, 
All  for  primal  needed  work,  while  the  fol< 
lowers  there  in  embryo  wait  behind, 


WALT   WHITMAN 


We  to-day's   procession  heading,  we  the 
route  for  travel  clearing, 

Pioneers  !    O  pioneers  !  80 

O  you  daughters  of  the  West ! 
O  you  young  and  elder  daughters  !  O  you 

mothers  and  you  wives  ! 
Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks 
you  move  united, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

Minstrels  latent  on  the  prairies  ! 
(Shrouded  bards  of  other  lands,  you  may 

rest,  you  have  done  your  work,) 
Soon  I  hear  you  coming  warbling,  soon  you 
rise  and  tramp  amid  us, 

Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 

Not  for  delectations  sweet, 
Not  the  cushion  and  the  slipper,  not  the 
peaceful  and  the  studious,  90 

Not  the  riches  safe  and  palling,  not  for  us 
the  tame  enjoyment, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

Do  the  feasters  gluttonous  feast  ? 
Do  the  corpulent  sleepers  sleep  ?  have  they 

lock'd  and  bolted  doors  ? 
Still  be  ours  the  diet  hard,  and  the  blanket 
on  the  ground, 

Pioneers !   O  pioneers ! 

Has  the  night  descended  ? 
Was  the  road  of  late  so  toilsome  ?  did  we 

stop  discouraged  nodding  on  our  way  ? 
Yet   a   passing   hour  I  yield  you  in  your 
tracks  to  pause  oblivious, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  !  too 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet, 
Far,   far   off   the   daybreak    call  —  hark  ! 

how  loud  and  clear  I  hear  it  wind, 
Swift !  to  the  head  of  the  army  !  —  swift ! 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


FROM    PAUMANOK   STARTING   I 
FLY    LIKE    A  BIRD 

FROM    Paumanok    starting    I    fly   like   a 

bird, 
Around  and  around  to  soar  to  sini*the  idea 

of  all, 


To  the  north  betaking  myself  to  sing  there 

arctic  songs, 
To  Kanada  till  I  absorb  Kanada  in  myself, 

to  Michigan  then, 
To   Wisconsin,   Iowa,   Minnesota,  to   sing 

their  songs  (they  are  inimitable) ; 
Then  to  Ohio  and  Indiana  to  siug  theirs,  to 

Missouri   and   Kansas  and  Arkansas   to 

sing  theirs, 
To  Tennessee  and  Kentucky,  to  the  Caro- 

linas  and  Georgia  to  sing  theirs, 
To  Texas  and  so  along  up  toward  California, 

to  roam  accepted  everywhere; 
To  sing  first  (to  the  tap  of  the  war-drum 

if  need  be), 
The  idea  of  all,  of  the  Western  world  one 

and  inseparable, 
And  then  the  song  of  each  member  of  these 

States. 

1865. 

EIGHTEEN  SIXTY-ONE 

ARM'D  year  —  year  of  the  struggle, 

No  dainty  rhymes  or  sentimental  love 
verses  for  you  terrible  year, 

Not  you  as  some  pale  poetling  seated  at  a 
desk  lisping  cadenzas  piano, 

But  as  a  strong  man  erect,  clothed  in  blue 
clothes,  advancing,  carrying  a  rifle  on 
your  shoulder, 

rith  well-gristled  body  and  sunburnt  face 
and  hands,  with  a  knife  in  the  belt  at 
your  side, 

As  I  heard  you  shouting  loud,  your  sonor- 
ous voice  ringing  across  the  continent, 

Your  masculine  voice  O  year,  as  rising 
amid  the  great  cities, 

Amid  the  men  of  Manhattan  I  saw  you  as 
one  of  the  workmen,  the  dwellers  in 
Manhattan, 

Or  with  large  steps  crossing  the  prairies 
out  of  Illinois  and  Indiana, 

Rapidly  crossing  the  West  with  springy 
gait  and  descending  the  Alleghanies, 

Or  down  from  the  great  lakes  or  in  Penn- 
sylvania, or  on  deck  along  the  Ohio  river, 

Or  southward  along  the  Tennessee  or  Cum- 
berland rivers,  or  at  Chattanooga  on  the 
mountain  top, 

Saw  I  your  gait  and  saw  I  your  sinewy 
limbs  clothed  in  blue,  bearing  weapons, 
robust  year, 

Heard  your  determin'd  voice  launch'd  forth 
again  and  again, 


yoi 
With 


572 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Year  that  suddenly  sang  bj  the  mouths  of 
the  round-lipp'd  cannon, 

I  repeat  you,  hurrying,  crashing,  sad,  dis- 
tracted year. 

1865. 


BEAT!   BEAT!    DRUMS! 

BEAT  !  beat !  drums  !  —  blow  !  bugles  ! 
blow! 

Through  the  windows  —  through  doors  — 
burst  like  a  ruthless  force, 

Into  the  solemn  church,  and  scatter  the 
congregation, 

Into  the  school  where  the  scholar  is  study- 
ing; 

Leave  not  the  bridegroom  quiet  —  no  hap- 
piness must  he  have  now  with  his  bride, 

Nor  the  peaceful  farmer  any  peace,  plough- 
ing his  field  or  gathering  his  grain, 

So  fierce  you  whirr  and  pound  you  drums 
—  so  shrill  you  bugles  blow. 

.Beat  !    beat  !    drums  !  —  blow  !    bugles  ! 

blow! 
Over  the  traffic  of  cities  —  over  the  rumble 

of  wheels  in  the  streets; 
Are  beds  prepared  for  sleepers  at  night  in 

the  houses  ?  no  sleepers  must   sleep   in 

those  beds, 
No     bargainers'    bargains    by     day  —  no 

brokers  or  speculators  —  would  they  con- 
tinue ? 
Would  the  talkers  be  talking  ?  would  the 

singer  attempt  to  sing  ? 
Would  the  lawyer  rise  in  the  court  to  state 

his  case  before  the  judge  ? 
Then  rattle  quicker,  heavier  drums  —  you 

bugles  wilder  blow. 

Beat  !    beat !    drums  !  —  blow  !     bugles  ! 

blow! 

Make  no  parley  —  stop  for  no  expostulation, 
Mind  not  the  timid  —  mind  not  the  weeper 

or  prayer, 
Mind  not  the  old  man  beseeching  the  young 

man, 
Let  not  the  child's  voice  be  heard,  nor  the 

mother's  entreaties, 
Make  even  the  trestles  to  shake  the  dead 

where  they  lie  awaiting  the  hearses, 
So  strong  you  thump  O  terrible  drums  — 

so  loud  you  bugles  blow. 

1865. 


CAVALRY  CROSSING  A  FORD 

A  IINE  in  long  array  where  they  wind  be- 
twixt green  islands, 
They  take  a  serpentine  course,  their  arms 

flash  in  the  sun  —  hark  to   the  musical 

clank, 
Behold  the  silvery  river,  in  it  the  splashing 

horses  loitering  stop  to  drink, 
Behold  the  brown-faced  men,  each  group, 

each  person  a  picture,  the  negligent  rest 

on  the  saddles, 
Some  emerge  on  the  opposite  bank,  others 

are  just  entering  the  ford  —  while, 
Scarlet  and  blue  and  snowy  white, 
The  guidon  flags  flutter  gayly  in  the  wind. 


BIVOUAC    ON   A   MOUNTAIN 
SIDE  i 

I  SEE   before  me   now   a   traveling   army 

halting, 
Below  a  fertile  valley  spread,  with  barns 

and  the  orchards  of  summer, 
Behind,  the  terraced  sides  of  a  mountain. 

abrupt,  in  places  rising  high, 
Broken,  with  rocks,  with  clinging  cedars, 

with  tall  shapes  dingily  seen, 
The  numerous  camp-fires  scatter'd  near  and 

far,  some  away  up  on  the  mountain, 
The  shadowy  forms   of   men   and  horses, 

looming,  large-sized,  flickering, 
And  over  all  the  sky  —  the  sky  !  far,  far 

out  of  reach,  studded,  breaking  out,  the 

eternal  stars. 

1865. 


BY    THE    BIVOUACS    FITFUL 
FLAME 

BY  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame, 

A   procession  winding  around  me,  solemn 

and  sweet  and  slow  —  but  first  I  note, 
The  tents  of  the  sleeping  army,  the  fields' 

and  woods'  dim  outline, 
The  darkness  lit  by  spots  of  kindled  fire, 

the  silence, 
Like  a  phantom  far  or  near  an  occasional 

figure  moving, 
The  shrubs  and   trees  (as  I  lift  my  eyes 

they  seem  to  be  stealthily  watching  me), 

^  Compaft  Specimen  Days,  July  4,  6,  10,  1863.   Com- 
plete  Prose  Works,  p.  11. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


573 


While  wind  in  procession  thoughts,  O  ten- 
der and  wondrous  thoughts, 

Of  life  and  death,  of  home  and  the  past 
and  loved,  and  of  those  that  are  far 
away; 

A  solemn  and  slow  procession  there  as  I  sit 
on  the  ground, 

By  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame. 

1865. 


I    SAW    OLD    GENERAL    AT   BAY 

I  SAW  old  General  at  bay, 

(Old  as  he  was,  his  gray  eyes  yet  shone  out 

in  battle  like  stars,) 
His  small  force  was  now  completely  hemm'd 

in,  in  his  works, 
He  call'd  for  volunteers  to  run  the  enemy's 

lines,  a  desperate  emergency, 
I  saw  a  hundred  and  more  step  forth  from 

the  ranks,  but  two  or  three  were  selected, 
I  saw  them  receive  their  orders  aside,  they 

listen'd  with  care,  the  adjutant  was  very 

grave, 
I  saw  them  depart  with  cheerfulness,  freely 

risking  their  lives. 

1865. 


VIGIL  STRANGE  I  KEPT  ON  THE 
FIELD  ONE  NIGHT 

VIGIL  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night; 
When  you  my  son  and  my  comrade  dropt  at 

my  side  that  day, 
One  look  I  but  gave  which  your  dear  eyes 

return'd  with  a  look  I  shall  never  forget, 
One  touch  of  your  hand  to  mine  O  boy, 

reach'd  up  as  you  lay  on  the  ground, 
Then  onward  I  sped  in  the  battle,  the  even- 
contested  battle, 
Till  late  in  the  night  reliev'd  to  the  place  at 

last  again  I  made  my  way, 
Found  you  in  death  so  cold  dear  comrade, 

found  your  body  son  of  responding  kisses 

(never  again  on  earth  responding), 
Bared  your  face  in  the  starlight,  curious  the 

scene,  cool  blew  the  moderate  night-wind, 
Long  there  and  then  in  vigil  I  stood,  dimly 

around  me  the  battle-field  spreading, 
Vigil  wondrous  and  vigil  sweet  there  in  the 

fragrant  silent  night, 
But  not  a  tear  fell,  not  even  a  long-drawn 

sigh,  long,  long  I  gazed, 


Then  on  the  earth  partially  reclining  sat  by 

your  side  leaning  my  chin  in  my  hands, 
Passing  sweet  hours,  immortal  and  mystic 

hours  with  you  dearest  comrade  —  not  a 

tear,  not  a  word, 
Vigil  of  silence,  love  and  death,  vigil  for  you 

my  son  and  my  soldier, 
As  onward  silently  stars  aloft,  eastward  new 

ones  upward  stole, 
Vigil  final  for  you  brave  boy,  (I  could  not 

save  you,  swift  was  your  death, 
I  faithfully  loved  you  and  cared  for  you 

living,    I    think   we    shall    surely    meet 

again,) 
Till  at  latest  lingering  of  the  night,  indeed 

just  as  the  dawn  appear'd. 
My  comrade   I  wrapt  in  his  blanket,  en- 
velop'd  well  bis  form, 

Folded  the  blanket  well,  tucking  it  care- 
fully   over    head    and    carefully   under 

feet, 
And  there  and  then  and  bathed  by  the  rising 

sun,  my  son  in  his  grave,  in  his  rude-dug 

grave  I  deposited, 
Ending  my  vigil  strange  with  that,  vigil  of 

night  and  battle-field  dim, 
Vigil  for  boy  of  responding  kisses  (never 

again  on  earth  responding), 
Vigil  for  comrade  swiftly  slain,  vigil  I  never 

forget,  how  as  day  brighten'd, 
I  rose  from  the  chill  ground  and  folded  my 

soldier  well  in  his  blanket, 
And  buried  him  where  he  fell. 


COME    UP     FROM    THE    FIELDS 
FATHER 

COME  up  from  the  fields  father,  here  's  a 

letter  from  our  Pete, 
And  come  to  the  front  door  mother,  here  's 

a  letter  from  thy  dear  son. 

Lo,  't  is  autumn, 

Lo,  where  the  trees,  deeper  green,  yellower 

and  redder, 
Cool   and   sweeten     Ohio's    villages  with 

leaves  fluttering  in  the  moderate  wind, 
Where  apples   ripe   in   the  orchards  hang 

and  grapes  on  the  trellis'd  vines, 
(Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  the 

vines? 
Smell  you  the  buckwheat  where  the  bees 

were  lately  buzzing  ?) 


574 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Above  all,  lo,  the  sky  so  calm,  so  trans- 
parent after  the  rain,  and  with  wondrous 
clouds, 

Below  too,  all  calm,  all  vital  and  beautiful, 
and  the  farm  prospers  well.  10 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well, 

But  now  from  the  fields  come  father,  come 

at  the  daughter's  call, 
And  come  to  the  entry  mother,  to  the  front 

door  come  right  away 

Fast   as    she   can   she  hurries,  something 

ominous,  her  steps  trembling, 
She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth  her  hair  nor 

adjust  her  cap. 

Open  the  envelope  quickly, 

O  this  is   not   our   son's   writing,   yet  his 

name  is  sign'd, 
O  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear  son, 

O  stricken  mother's  soul ! 
All   swims    before    her  eyes,  flashes  with 

black,  she  catches  the  main  words  only, 
Sentences    broken,    gunshot    wound    in   the 

breast,  cavalry  skirmish,  taken  to  hospital, 
At  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better.          21 

Ah  now  the  single  figure  to  me, 

Amid  all  teeming   and  wealthy  Ohio  with 

all  its  cities  and  farms, 
Sickly  white  in  the   face  and  dull  in  the 

head,  very  faint, 
By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans. 

Grieve  not  so,  dear  mother  (the  just-grown 
daughter  speaks  through  her  sobs, 

The  little  sisters  huddle  around  speechless 
and  dismay'd), 

See,  dearest  mother,  the  letter  says  Pete  will 
soon  be  better. 

Alas  poor  boy,  he  will  never  be  better 
(nor  may-be  needs  to  be  better,  that 
brave  and  simple  soul), 

While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door  he  is 
dead  already,  30 

The  only  son  is  dead. 

But  the  mother  needs  to  be  better, 

She  with  thin  form  presently  drest  in  black, 

By  day  her  meals  untouch'd,  then  at  night 

fitfully  sleeping,  often  waking, 
In  the  midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing 

with  one  deep  longing, 


O  that  she  might  withdraw  unnoticed,  silent 
from  life  escape  and  withdraw, 

To  follow,   to  seek,  to  be   with   her  dear 
dead  son. 

18G5. 


A  SIGHT  IN  CAMP  IN  THE  DAY- 
BREAK GRAY  AND  DIM 

A  SIGHT  in  camp  in  the  daybreak  gray  and 

dim, 

As  from  my  tent  I  emerge  so  early  sleepless, 
As  slow  I  walk  in  the  cool  fresh  air  the 

path  near  by  the  hospital  tent, 
Three   forms    I    see   on   stretchers  lying, 

brought  out  there  untended  lying, 
Over    each    the    blanket     spread,    ample 

brownish  woolen  blanket, 
Gray  and  heavy  blanket,  folding,  covering 

all 

Curious  I  halt  and  silent  stand, 

Then  with  light  fingers  I  from  the  face  ol 

the  nearest  the  first  just  lift  the  blanket, 
Who   are  you  elderly  man   so  gaunt  and 

grim,  with   well-gray'd  hair  and  flesh  all 

sunken  about  the  eyes  ? 
Who  are  you  my  dear  comrade  ? 

Then  to  the  second  I  step  —  and  who  are 

you  my  child  and  darling  ? 
Who  are    you  sweet   boy  with  cheeks  yet 

blooming  ? 

Then  to  the  third  —  a  face  nor  child  nor 
old,  very  calm,  as  of  beautiful  yellow- 
white  ivory; 

Young  man  I  think  I  know  you  —  I  think 
this  face  is  the  face  of  the  Christ  himself, 

Dead  and  divine  and  brother  of  all,  and 
here  again  he  lies. 

18G5. 


AS  TOILSOME  I  WANDER'D  VIR- 
GINIA'S WOODS 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods, 

To  the  music  of  rustling  leaves  kick'd  by 
my  feet  (for  !t  was  autumn), 

I  mark'd  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  the  grave  of 
a  soldier; 

Mortally  wounded  he  and  buried  on  the  re- 
treat (easily  all  could  I  understand), 


WALT   WHITMAN 


575 


The  halt  of  a  mid-day  hour,  when  up  !  no 
time  to  lose  —  yet  this  sign  left, 

On  a  tablet  scrawl'd  and  nail'd  on  the  tree 
by  the  grave, 

Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 

Long,  long  I  muse,  then  on  my  way  go 
wandering, 

Many  a  changeful  season  to  follow,  and 
many  a  scene  of  life, 

Yet  at  times  through  changeful  season  and 
scene,  abrupt,  alone,  or  in  the  crowded 
street, 

Comes  before  me  the  unknown  soldier's 
grave,  comes  the  inscription  rude  in  Vir- 
ginia's woods, 

Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 

1865. 


THE   WOUND-DRESSER1 


AN  old  man   bending  I  come  among  new 

faces, 
Years      looking    backward     resuming     in 

answer  to  children, 

1  See  the  letter  in  Bucke's  Whitman,  pp.  38-10. 

With  this,  and  all  the  poems  relating  to  the  Civil 
War,  should  be  read  the  book  entitled  The  Wound- 
Dresser,  a  collection  of  letters  written  from  the  field 
and  from  the  hospitals  in  Washington ;  and  the  parts  of 
Specimen  Days  picturing  Whitman's  experiences  in  the 
war  and  in  the  hospitals,  in  his  Complete  Prose  Works, 
pp.  15-75.  A  few  passages  may  be  quoted:  — 

'  The  men,  whatever  their  condition,  lie  there,  and 
patiently  wait  till  their  turn  comes  to  be  taken  up. 
Near  by,  the  ambulances  are  now  arriving  in  clusters, 
and  one  after  another  is  call'd  to  back  up  and  take  its 
load.  Extreme  cases  are  sent  off  on  stretchers.  The 
men  generally  make  little  or  no  ado,  whatever  their 
sufferings.  A  few  groans  that  cannot  be  suppress'd, 
and  occasionally  a  scream  of  pain  as  they  lift  a  man 
into  the  ambulance.  To-day,  as  I  write,  hundreds  more 
are  expected,  and  to-morrow  and  the  next  day  more, 
and  so  on  for  many  days.  Quite  often  they  arrive  at 
the  rate  of  1000  a  day.  .  .  . 

'  It  is  Sunday  afternoon,  middle  of  summer,  hot  and 
oppressive,  and  very  silent  through  the  ward.  I  am 


taking  care  of  a  critical  case,  now  lying  in  a  half 
lethargy.  Near  where  I  sit  is  a  suff ering  rebel,  from  the 
8th  Louisiana;  his  name  is  Irving.  He  has  been  here  a 
long  time,  badly  wounded,  and  lately  had  his  leg  am- 
putated; it  is  not  doing  very  well.  Right  opposite  me 
is  a  sick  soldier-boy,  laid  down  with  his  clothes  on, 
sleeping,  looking  much  wasted,  his  pallid  face  on  his 
arm.  I  see  by  the  yellow  trimming  on  his  jacket  that 
he  is  a  cavalry  boy.  I  step  softly  over  and  find  by  his 
card  that  he  is  named  William  Cone,  of  the  1st  Maine 
cavalry,  and  his  folks  live  in  Skowhegan. 

'  One  hot  day  toward  the  middle  of  June,  I  gave  the 
inmates  of  Carver  hospital  a  general  ice  cream  treat, 
purchasing  a  large  quantity,  and,  under  convoy  of  the 
doctor  or  head  nurse,  going  around  personally  through 
the  wards  to  see  to  its  distribution. 

' ...  I  do  not  see  that  I   do  much  good    to  these 


Come  tell  us  old  man,  as  from  young  men 

and  maidens  that  love  me, 
( Arous'd  and  angry,  I'd  thought  to  beat  the 

alarum,  and  urge  relentless  war, 

wounded  and  dying;  but  I  cannot  leave  them.  Once  in 
a  while  some  youngster  holds  on  to  me  convulsively, 
and  I  do  what  I  can  for  him;  at  any  rate,  stop  with  him 
and  sit  near  him  for  hours,  if  he  wishes  it.  ... 

' .  .  .  I  soon  get  acquainted  anywhere  in  camp, 
with  officers  or  men,  and  am  always  well  used.  Some- 
times I  go  down  on  picket  with  the  regiments  I  know 
best.  .  .  . 

'  ...  In  these  wards,  or  on  the  field,  as  I  thus  con- 
tinue to  go  round,  I  have  come  to  adapt  myself  to  each 
emergency,  after  its  kind  or  call,  however  trivial,  how- 
ever solemn,  every  one  justified  and  made  real  under 
its  circumstances — not  only  visits  and  cheering  talk 
and  little  gifts  —  not  only  washing  and  dressing 
wounds  (I  have  some  cases  where  the  patient  is  unwill- 
ing any  one  should  do  this  but  me)  —  but  passages 
from  the  Bible,  expounding  them,  prayer  at  the  bed- 
side, explanations  of  doctrine,  &c.  (I  think  I  see  my 
friends  smiling  at  this  confession,  but  I  was  never 
more  in  earnest  in  my  life.)  In  camp  and  every- 
where, I  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  or  giving  reel, 
tations  to  the  men.  .  .  . 

'  .  .  .  I  went  through  the  rooms,  downstairs  and  up , 
Some  of  the  men  were  dying.  I  had  nothing  to  giv» 
at  that  visit,  but  wrote  a  few  letters  to  folks  home, 
mothers,  &c.  Also  talk'd  to  three  or  four,  who  seem'd 
most  susceptible  to  it,  and  needing  it.  ... 

'  In  one  bed  a  young  man,  Marcus  Small,  company  K, 
"th  Maine  —  sick  Vith  dysentery  and  typhoid  fever  — 
pretty  critical  case  —  I  talk  with  him  often  —  he  thinks 
he  will  die  —  looks  like  it  indeed.  I  write  a  letter  for 
him  home  to  East  Livermore,  Maine—  I  let  him  talk  to 
me  a  little,  but  not  much,  advise  him  to  keep  very 
quiet  —  do  most  of  the  talking  myself  — stay  quite  a 
while  with  him,  as  he  holds  on  to  my  hand  —  talk  to 
him  in  a  cheering,  but  slow,  low,  and  measured  man- 
ner —  talk  about  his  furlough,  and  going  home  as  soon 
as  he  is  able  to  travel.' 

[From  a  letter  to  a  dead  soldier's  mother] ;  .  .  . 
I  will  write  you  a  few  lines— as  a  casual  friend  that 
sat  by  his  death-bed.  Your  son.  Corporal  Frank  H.  Ir- 
win,  was  wounded  near  Fort  Fisher,  Virginia,  March 
25th,  1865  — the  wound  was  in  the  left  knee,  pretty 
bad  ...  I  visited  and  sat  by  him  frequently,  as  he 
was  fond  of  having  me.  The  last  ten  or  twelve  days  of 
April  I  saw  that  his  case  was  critical.  He  previously 
had  some  fever,  with  cold  spells.  The  last  week  in 
April  he  was  much  of  the  time  flighty  —  but  always 
mild  and  gentle.  He  died  first  of  May.  The  actual 
cause  of  death  was  pyaemia  (the  absorption  of  the  mat- 
ter in  the  system  instead  of  its  discharge).  Frank,  as 
far  as  I  saw,  had  everything  requisite  in  surgical  treat- 
ment, nursing,  &c.  He  had  watches  much  of  the  time. 
He  was  so  good  and  well-behaved  and  affectionate,  I 
myself  liked  him  very  much.  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
coming  in  afternoons  and  sitting  by  him,  and  soothing 
him,  and  he  liked  to  have  me  —  liked  to  put  his  arm 
out  and  lay  his  hand  on  my  knee  —  would  keep  it  so  a 
long  while.  Toward  the  last  he  was  more  restless  and 
flighty  at  night.  .  .  .  All  the  time  he  was  out  of  his 
head  not  one  single  bad  word  or  idea  escaped  him.  It 
was  remark'd  that  many  a  man's  conversation  in  his 
senses  was  not  half  as  good  as  Frank's  delirium.  He 
seem'd  quite  willing  to  die  —  he  had  become  very  weak 
and  had  suffer'd  a  good  deal,  and  was  perfectly  resign'd, 
poor  boy.  I  do  not  know  his  past  life,  but  I  feel  as  if  it 
must  have  been  good.  At  any  rate  what  I  saw  of  him 
here,  under  the  most  trying  circumstances,  with  a 
painful  wound,  and  among  strangers,  I  can  say  that  he 
behaved  so  brave,  so  composed,  and  so  sweet  and  af. 


576 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


But  soon  my  fingers  fail'd  me,  my  face 
droop'd  and  I  resign'd  myself, 

To  sit  by  the  wounded  and  soothe  them,  or 
silently  watch  the  dead;) 

Years  hence  of  these  scenes,  of  these  fu- 
rious passions,  these  chances, 

Of  unsurpass'd  heroes  (was  one  side  so 
brave  ?  the  other  was  equally  brave ;)  l 

Now  be  witness  again,  paint  the  mightiest 
armies  of  earth, 

Of  those  armies  so  rapid  so  wondrous  what 
saw  you  to  tell  us  ?  10 

What  stays  with  you  latest  and  deepest  ? 
of  curious  panics, 

Of  hard-fought  engagements  or  sieges  tre- 
mendous what  deepest  remains  ? 


O  maidens  and  young  men  I  love  and  that 
love  me, 

What  you  ask  of  my  days  those  the 
strangest  and  sudden  your  talking  recalls, 

Soldier  alert  I  arrive  after  a  long  march 
cover'd  with  sweat  and  dust, 

In  the  nick  of  time  I  come,  plunge  in  the 
fight,  loudly  shout  in  the  r*sh  of  success- 
ful charge, 

Enter  the  captur'd  works  —  yet  lo,  like  a 
swift-running  river  they  fade, 

Pass  and  are  gone  they  fade  —  I  dwell  not 
on  soldiers'  perils  or  soldiers'  joys 

(Both  I  remember  well  —  many  the  hard- 
ships, few  the  joys,  yet  I  was  content). 

But  in  silence,  in  dreams'  projections,        20 
While  the  world  of  gain  and  appearance 
and  mirth  goes  on, 

fectionate,  it  could  not  be  surpass'd.  And  now  like 
many  other  noble  and  good  men,  after  serving  his 
country  as  a  soldier,  he  has  yielded  up  his  young  life 
at  the  very  outset  in  her  service.  Such  things  are 
gloomy—  yet  there  is  a  text,  'God  doeth  all  things 
well'— the  meaning  of  which,  after  due  time,  ap- 
pears to  the  soul. 

I  thought  perhaps  a  few  words,  though  from  a 
stranger,  about  your  son,  from  one  who  was  with  him 
at  the  last,  might  be  worth  while  —  for  I  loved  the 
young  man,  though  I  but  saw  him  immediately  to  lose 
him.  .  .  W.W. 

1  The  grand  soldiers  are  not  comprised  in  those  of  one 
side,  any  more  than  the  other.  Here  is  a  sample  of  an 
unknown  Southerner,  a  lad  of  seventeen.  At  the  War 
Department,  a  few  days  ago,  I  witness'd  a  presentation 
of  captured  flags  to  the  Secretary.  Among  others  a 
soldier  named  Gant,  of  the  104th  Ohio  Volunteers,  pre- 
sented a  rebel  battle-flag,  which  one  of  the  officers 
stated  to  me  was  borne  to  the  mouth  of  our  cannon 
and  planted  there  by  a  boy  but  seventeen  years  of  age, 
who  actually  endeavor'd  to  stop  the  muzzle  of  the  gun 
with  fence-rails.  He  was  kill'd  in  the  effort,  and  the 
flag-staff  was  sever'd  by  a  shot  from  one  of  our  men. 
(Specimen  Dayt,  p.  27.) 


So  soon  what  is  over  forgotten,  and  waves 
wash  the  imprints  off  the  sand, 

With  hinged  knees  returning  I  enter  the 
doors  (while  for  you  up  there, 

Whoever  you  are,  follow  without  noise  and 
be  of  strong  heart). 

Bearing  the  bandages,  water  and  sponge, 
Straight  and  swift  to  my  wounded  I  go, 
Where  they  lie  on  the  ground  after  the 

battle  brought  in, 
Where   thdir  priceless    blood  reddens  the 

grass  the  ground, 
Or  to  the  rows  of   the    hospital   tent,  or 

under  the  roof 'd  hospital, 
To  the  long  rows  of  cots  up  and  down  each 

side  I  return,  30 

To  each  and  all  one  after  another  I  draw 

near,  not  one  do  I  miss, 
An  attendant  follows  holding   a   tray,  he 

carries  a  refuse  pail, 
Soon  to  be  fill'd  with  clotted  rags  and  blood, 

emptied,  and  fill'd  again. 

I  onward  go,  I  stop, 

With   hinged   knees   and   steady   hand    to 

dress  wounds, 
I  am  firm  with  each,  the  pangs  are  sharp 

yet  unavoidable, 
One  turns  to  me  his  appealing  eyes  —  poor 

boy  !    I  never  knew  you, 
Yet  I  think  1  could  not  refuse  this  moment 

to  die  for  you,  if  that  would  save  you. 


On,  on  I  go,  (open  doors  of  time  !  open 
hospital  doors  !) 

The  crush'd  head  I  dress  (poor  crazed  hand 
tear  not  the  bandage  away),  40 

The  neck  of  the  cavalry-man  with  the  bul- 
let through  and  through  I  examine, 

Hard  the  breathing  rattles,  quite  glazed 
already  the  eye,  yet  life  struggles  hard 

(Come  sweet  death !  be  persuaded  O 
beautiful  death  ! 

In  mercy  come  quickly). 

From  the  stump  of  the  arm,  the  amputated 

hand, 
I  undo  the  clotted  lint,,  remove  the  slough, 

wash  off  the  matter  and  blood, 
Back  on  his  pillow  the  soldier  bends  with 

curv'd  neck  and  side-falling  head, 
His  eyes   are  closed,  his  face  is   pale,  he 

dares  not  look  on  the  bloody  stump, 
And  has  not  yet  look'd  on  it. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


577 


I  dress  a  wound  in  the  side,  deep,  deep,    50 
But  a  day  or  two  more,  for  see  the  frame 

all  wasted  and  sinking, 
And  the  yellow-blue  countenance  see. 

I  dress  the  perforated   shoulder,  the   foot 

with  the  bullet-wound, 
Cleanse  the  one  with  a  gnawing  and  putrid 

gangrene,  so  sickening,  so  offensive, 
While  the  attendant  stands   behind   aside 

me  holding  the  tray  and  pail. 

I  am  faithful,  I  do  not  give  out, 

The  fractur'd  thigh,  the  knee,  the  wound 

in  the  abdomen, 
These   and   more  I  dress   with   impassive 

hand  (yet  deep   in   my  breast  a  fire,  a 

burning  flame). 

4 

Thus  in  silence  in  dreams'  projections, 

Returning,   resuming,    I   thread    my    way 
through  the  hospitals,  60 

The  hurt  and  wounded  I  pacify  with  sooth- 
ing hand, 

I  sit  by  the  restless   all   the   dark   night, 
some  are  so  young, 

Some  suffer  so  much,  I  recall  the  experi- 
ence sweet  and  sad, ' 

(Many  a  soldier's  loving  arms   about  this 
neck  have  cross'd  and  rested, 

Many   a   soldier's    kiss    dwells    on    these 
bearded  lips). 

1865. 


GIVE  ME  THE  SPLENDID  SILENT 

SUN 


GIVE  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his 

beams  full-dazzling, 
Give  me  juicy  autumnal  fruit  ripe  and  red 

from  the  orchard, 
Give  me  a  field  where  the  unmow'd  grass 

grows, 
Give  me  an  arbor,    give  me   the   trellis'd 

grape, 

Give  me  fresh  corn  and  wheat,  give  me  se- 
rene-moving animals  teaching  content, 
Give  me  nights  perfectly  quiet  as  on  high 

plateaus  west  of  the  Mississippi,  and  I 

looking  up  at  the  stars, 
Give  me  odorous  at  sunrise  a  garden  of 

beautiful  flowers  where  I  can  walk  un- 

disturb'd, 


Give  me  for  marriage  a  sweet-breath'd 
woman  of  whom  I  should  never  tire, 

Give  me  a  perfect  child,  give  me  away  aside 
from  the  noise  of  the  world  a  rural  do- 
mestic life, 

Give  me  to  warble  spontaneous  songs  recluse 
by  myself,  for  my  own  ears  only,  10 

Give  me  solitude,  give  me  Nature,  give  me 
again  O  Nature  your  primal  sanities  ! 

These  demanding  to  have  them  (tired  with 
ceaseless  excitement,  and  rack'd  by  the 
war-strife), 

These  to  procure  incessantly  asking,  rising 
in  cries  from  my  heart, 

While  yet  incessantly  asking  still  I  adhere 
to  my  city, 

Day  upon  day  and  year  upon  year  O  city, 
walking  your  streets, 

Where  you  hold  me  enchain'd  a  certain 
time  refusing  to  give  me  up, 

Yet  giving  to  make  me  glutted,  enrich'd  of 
soul,  you  give  me  forever  faces; 

(Oh  I  see  what  I  sought  to  escape,  con- 
fronting, reversing  my  cries, 

I  see  my  own  soul  trampling  down  what  it 
ask'd  for.) 


Keep  your  splendid  silent  sun,  20 

Keep  your  woods  O  Nature,  and  the  quiet 
places  by  the  woods, 

Keep  your  fields  of  clover  and  timothy,  and 
your  corn-fields  and  orchards, 

Keep  the  blossoming  buckwheat  fields 
where  the  Ninth-month  bees  hum; 

Give  me  faces  and  streets  —  give  me  these 
phantoms  incessant  and  endless  along  the 
trottoirs  ! 

Give  me  interminable  eyes  — give  me 
women  —  give  me  comrades  and  lovers 
by  the  thousand  ! 

Let  me  see  new  ones  every  day  —  let  me 
hold  new  ones  by  the  hand  every  day  ! 

Give  me  such  shows  —  give  me  the  street* 
of  Manhattan  ! 

Give  me  Broadway,  with  the  soldiers  march- 
ing —  give  me  the  sound  of  the  trumpets 
and  drums  ! 

(The  soldiers  in  companies  or  regiments  — 
some  starting  away,  flush'd  and  reck- 
less, 

Some,  their  time  up,  returning  with  thinn'd 
ranks,  young,  yet  very  old,  worn,  march- 
ing, noticing  nothing;)  30 


578 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Give  me  the  shores  and  wharves  heavy- 
fringed  with  black  ships  ! 

O  such  for  me  !  O  an  intense  life,  full  to 
repletion  and  varied  ! 

The  life  of  the  theatre,  bar-room,  huge  ho- 
tel, for  me  ! 

The  saloon  of  the  steamer  !  the  crowded  ex- 
cursion for  me !  the  torchlight  procession ! 

The  dense  brigade  bound  for  the  war,  with 
high  piled  military  wagons  following; 

People,  endless,  streaming,  with  strong 
voices,  passions,  pageants, 

Manhattan  streets  with  their  powerful 
throbs,  with  beating  drums  as  now, 

The  endless  and  noisy  chorus,  the  rustle 
and  clank  of  muskets  (even  the  sight  of 
the  wounded), 

Manhattan  crowds,  with  their  turbulent 
musical  chorus  !  39 

Manhattan  faces  and  eyes  forever  for  me. ' 

1865. 

LONG,   TOO    LONG   AMERICA  2 

LONG,  too  long  America, 

Traveling  roads  all  even  and  peaceful  you 

learn'd  from  joys  and  prosperity  only, 
But  now,  ah  now,  to  learn  from  crises  of 

anguish,  advancing,  grappling  with  direst 

fate  and  recoiling  not, 
And  now  to  conceive  and  show  to  the  world 

what  your  children  en-masse  really  are, 
(For  who  except  myself  has  yet  conceiv'd 

what  your  children  en-masse  really  are  ?) 
1865. 

OVER     THE  CARNAGE    ROSE 
PROPHETIC    A   VOICE 

OVER  the  carnage  rose  prophetic  a  voice, 
Se  not  dishearten'd,  affection  shall  solve  the 
problems  of  freedom  yet, 

1  Compare  Whitman's  Collect  (Complete  Prose 
Works,  Small,  Mayiiard  &  Co.,  p.  205) :  — 
'  Always  and  more  and  more,  as  I  cross  the  East  and 
North  riyers,  the  ferries,  or  with  the  pilots  in  their  pi- 
lot-houses, or  pass  an  hour  in  Wall  Street,  or  the  gold 
exchange,  I  realize  (if  we  must  admit  such  partialisms), 
that  not  Nature  alone  is  great  in  her  fields  of  freedom 
and  the  open  air,  in  her  storms,  the  shows  of  night  and 
day,  the  mountains,  forests,  seas  —  but  in  the  artificial, 
the  work  of  man  too  is  equally  great  —  in  this  profusion 
of  teeming  humanity  —  in  these  ingenuities,  streets, 
goods,  houses,  ships  —  these  hurrying,  feverish,  electric 
crowds  of  men,  their  complicated  business  genius,  (not 
least  among  the  geniuses),  and  all  this  mighty,  many- 
threaded  wealth  and  industry  concentrated  here.' 

1  In  the  original  edition  the  title  and  first  line  read: 
Long,  too  long,  O  land. 


Those  who  love  each  other  shall  become  in- 
vincible, 
They  shall  yet  make  Columbia  victorious. 

Sons  of  the  Mother  of  All,  you  shall  yet  be 

victorious, 
You  shall  yet  laugh  to  scorn  the  attacks  of 

all  the  remainder  of  the  earth. 

No  danger  shall  balk  Columbia's  lovers, 
If  need  be  a  thousand  shall  sternly  immo- 
late themselves  for  one. 

One  from  Massachusetts  shall  be  a  Missou- 

rian's  comrade, 
From  Maine  and   from  hot  Carolina,  and 

another   an  Oregonese,  shall  be  friends 

triune, 
More  precious  to  each  other  than  all  the 

riches  of  the  earth. 

To  Michigan,  Florida  perfumes  shall  ten- 
derly come, 

Not  the  perfumes  of  flowers,  but  sweeter, 
and  wafted  beyond  death. 

It   shall  be  customary  in  the   houses  and 

streets  to  see  manly  affection, 
The  most  dauntless'  and  rude  shall  touch 

face  to  face  lightly, 

The  dependence  of  Liberty  shall  be  lovers, 
The  continuance  of  Equality  shall  be  com- 


These  shall  tie  you  and  band  you  stronger 

than  hoops  of  iron, 
I,  ecstatic,  O  partners  !  O  lands  !  with  the 

love  of  lovers  tie  you. 

(Were  you  looking  to  be  held  together  by 

lawyers  ? 
Or  by  an  agreement  on  a  paper  ?   or   by 

arms? 
Nay,  nor  the  world,  nor  any  living  thing, 

will  so  cohere.) 

1865. 

OUT   OF   THE    ROLLING   OCEAN 
THE   CROWD4 

Our  of  the  rolling  ocean  the  crowd  came 

a  drop  gently  to  me, 
Whispering  /  love  you,  before  long  I  die, 

3  Taken  in  part  from  the  poem  '  States,'  of  the  I860 
edition,  quoted  in  the  note  on  p.  561. 

«  Originally  in  Drum-Taps,  but  now  included  in  tho 
'  Children  of  Adam '  section  of  Leares  of  Grass. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


579 


/  have  travel' d  a  long  way  merely  to  look  on 

you  to  touch  you, 

For  I  could  not  die  till  I  once  look'd  on  you, 
For  Ifear'd  I  might  afterward  lose  you. 

Now  we  have  met,  we  have  look'd,  we  are 

safe, 

Return  in  peace  to  the  ocean  my  love, 
I  too  am  part  of  that  ocean  my  love,  we  are 

not  so  much  separated, 
Behold  the  great  rondure,  the  cohesion  of 

all,  how  perfect ! 
But  as  for  me,  for  you,  the  irresistible  sea 

is  to  separate  us, 

As  for  an  hour  carrying  us  diverse,  yet  can- 
not carry  us  diverse  forever; 
Be  not  impatient  —  a  little  space  —  know 

you  I  salute  the  air,  the  ocean  and  the 

land, 
Every  day  at  sundown  for  your  dear  sake 

my  love. 

1865. 


WHEN    I   HEARD    THE    LEARN'D 
ASTRONOMER1 

WHEN  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer, 
When  the  proofs,  the  figures,  were  ranged 
in.  columns  before  me, 

1  To-night,  after  leaving  the  hospital  at  10  o'clock  (I 
had  been  on  self-imposed  duty  some  five  hours,  pretty 
closely  confined),  I  wauder'd  a  long  time  around  Wash- 
ington. The  night  was  sweet,  very  clear,  sufficiently 
cool,  a  voluptuous  half -moon,  slightly  golden,  the  space 
near  it  of  a  transparent  blue-gray  tinge.  I  walk'd  up 
Pennsylvania  avenue,  and  then  to  Seventh  street,  and 
a  long  while  around  the  Patent-office.  Somehow  it 
look'd  rebukefully  strong,  majestic,  there  in  the  deli- 
cate moonlight.  The  sky,  the  planets,  the  constella- 
tions all  so  bright,  so  calm,  so  expressively  silent,  so 
soothing,  after  those  hospital  scenes.  I  wander'd  to 
and  fro  till  the  moist  moon  set,  long  after  midnight. 
(Specimen  Days,  October  20,  1863.  Complete  Prose 
Works,  p.  41.) 

See  also  Specimen  Days,  July  22,  1878,  Prose  Works, 


pp.  Ill,  112  ;  April  5,  1879,  Prose  Works,  pp.  118-121 ; 
February  10,  1881,  Prose  Works,  pp.  162,  163. 
Compare  one  of  Whitman's  '  Notes  on  the  Meaning 


and  Intention  of  Leaves  of  Grass,''  in  Notes  and  Frag- 
ments, p.  58 :  — 

Book  learning  is  good,  let  none  dispense  with  it,  but 
a  man  may  [be]  of  great  excellence  and  effect  with  very 
little  of  it.  Washington  had  but  little.  Andrew  Jack- 
son also.  Fulton  also.  Frequently  it  stands  in  the  way 
of  real  manliness  and  power.  Powerful  persons  and  the 
first  inventors  and  poets  of  the  earth  never  come  from 
the  depths  of  the  schools  —  never.  There  is  a  man  who 
is  no  chemist,  nor  linguist,  nor  antiquary,  nor  mathemati- 
cian —  yet  he  takes  very  easily  the  perfection  of  these 
sciences,  or  of  the  belles  lettres,  and  eats  of  the  fruit 
of  all.  Erudition  is  low  among  the  glories  of  humanity. 
I  think  if  those  who  best  embody  it  were  collected  to- 
gether this  day  in  the  public  assembly  it  would  be 
grand.  But  powerful  unlearned  persons  are  also  grand. 


When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  diagrams, 

to  add,  divide,  and  measure  them, 
When  I  sitting  heard  the  astronomer  where 

he  lectured  with  much  applause  in  the 

lecture-room, 
How  soon  unaccountable  I  became  tired  and 

sick, 
Till  rising  and  gliding  out  I  wander'd  off 

by  myself, 
In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  from 

time  to  time, 
Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars. 

1865. 


SHUT  NOT  YOUR  DOORS 

SHUT  not  your  doors  to  me  proud  libraries, 
For  that  which  was  lacking  on  all  your  well- 

filFd  shelves,  yet  needed  most,  I  bring, 
Forth  from  the  war  emerging,  a  book  I  have 

made, 
The  words  of  my  book  nothing,  the  drift  of 

it  every  thing, 
A  book  separate,  not  link'd  with  the  rest 

nor  felt  by  the  intellect, 
But  you  ye  untold  latencies  will  thrill  to 

every  page.2 

1865. 


TO  A  CERTAIN  CIVILIAN3 

DID  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me  ? 
Did  you   seek  the  civilian's   peaceful   and 
languishing  rhymes  ? 

But  all  book  knowledge  is  important  as  helping  one's 
personal  qualities,  and  the  use  and  power  of  a  man.  Let 
a  man  learn  to  run,  leap,  swim,  wrestle,  fight,  to  take 
good  aim,  to  manage  horses,  to  speak  readily  and  clearly 
and  without  mannerism,  to  feel  at  home  among  common 
people  and  able  to  hold  his  own  in  terrible  positions. 
With  these  .  .  . 

Behind  —  Eluding  —  Mocking  all  the  text-books  and 
professor's  expositions  and  proofs  and  diagrams  and 
practical  show,  stand  or  lie  millions  of  all  the  most  beau- 


tiful and  common  facts.     We  are  so  proud  of  our  learn- 
lything  to  analyze  fluids  and  call 


ing !    As  if  it  were  any 


certain  parts  oxygen  or  hydrogen,  or  to  map  out  stars 
and  call  .  .  . 

2  In  the  original  version  this  poem  reads :  — 
Shut  not  your  doors  to  me.  proud  libraries, 

For  that  which  was  lacking  amongyou  all,  yet  needed  most, 

I  bring: 

A  book  I  have  made  for  your  dear  sake,  O  soldiers, 
And  for  you,  O  soul  of  man,  and  yon,  love  of  comrades; 
The  words  of  my  book  nothing,  the  life  of  it  everything; 
A  book  separate,  not  link'd  with  the  rest,  nor  felt  by  the 

intellect; 

But  you  will  feel  every  word,  O  I.ibertad  !  arm'd  Libertad  1 
It  shall  pass  by  the  intellect  to  swim  the  sea,  the  air. 
With  joy  with  you,  O  soul  of  man. 

3  Compare  the  opening  stanzas  of  Emerson's  '  Mer- 
lin.' 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Did  you  find  what  I  sang  erewhile  so  hard 
to  follow  ? 

Why  I  was  not  singing  erewhile  for  you  to 
follow,  to  understand  —  nor  am  I  now 

(I  have  been  born  of  the  same  as  the  war 
was  born, 

The  drum-corps'  rattle  is  ever  to  me  sweet 
music,  I  love  well  the  martial  dirge, 

With  slow  wail  and  convulsive  throb  lead- 
ing the  officer's  funeral) ; 

What  to  such  as  you  anyhow  such  a  poet  as 
1  ?  therefore  leave  my  works, 

And  go    lull   yourself  with  what   you  can 
understand,  and  with  piano-tunes, 

For  I  lull  nobody,  and  you  will  never  un- 
derstand me. 1 

1865. 


*  Thia  is  a  poem  which  some  of  Whitman's  admirers 
are  fond  of  quoting  to  those  who  fail  to  appreciate  him. 
It  in  hardly  fair  to  him,  however,  to  take  it  apart 
from  his  own  more  modest  expression  of  the  same  ideas, 
iu  '  A  Backward  Glance  o'er  Travel' d  Roads  :  —  ' ' 

'  And  whether  my  friends  claim  it  for  me  or  not,  I 
know  well  enough,  too,  that  in  respect  to  pictorial 
talent,  dramatic  situations,  and  especially  in  verbal 
melody  and  all  the  conventional  technique  of  poetry,  not 
only  the  divine  works  that  to-day  stand  ahead  in  the 
world's  reading,  but  dozens  more,  transcend  {some  of 
them  immeasurably  transcend)  all  I  have  done,  or 
could  do.  ... 

'  Plenty  of  songs  had  been  sung  —  beautiful,  match- 
less songs  — adjusted  to  other  lands  than  these  — an- 
other spirit  and  stage  of  evolution  ;  but  1  would  sing, 
and  leave  out  or  put  in,  quite  solely  with  reference  to 
America  and  to-day.  Modern  science  and  democracy 
seem'd  to  be  throwing  out  their  challenge  to  poetry  to 
put  them  in  its  statements  in  contradistinction  to  the 
songs  and  myths  of  the  past.  As  I  see  it  now  (perhaps 
too  late),  I  have  unwittingly  taken  up  that  challenge 
and  made  an  attempt  at  such  statements  —  which  I 
certainly  would  not  assume  to  do  now,  knowing  more 
clearly  what  it  means.  .  .  . 

'  Behind  all  else  that  can  be  said,  I  consider  "  Leaves 
Of  Grass"  and  its  theory  experimental  —  as,  in  the 
deepest  sense,  I  consider  our  American  republic  itself 
to  be,  with  its  theory.  (I  think  I  have  at  least  enough 
philosophy  not  to  be  too  absolutely  certain  of  any  thing, 
or  any  results.)  .  .  . 

'  I  have  allow'd  the  stress  of  my  poems  from  beginning 
to  end  to  bear  upon  American  individuality.  .  .  .  Defi- 
ant of  ostensible  literary  and  other  conventions,  I 
avowedly  chant  "  the  great  pride  of  man  in  himself," 
and  permit  it  to  be  more  or  less  a  motif  of  nearly  all 
my  verse.  I  think  this  pride  indispensable  to  an  Amer- 
ican. I  think  it  not  inconsistent  with  obedience,  humil- 
ity, deference,  and  self-questioning.  .  .  . 

'  Let  me  not  dare,  here  or  anywhere,  for  my  own  pur- 
poses, or  any  purposes,  to  attempt  the  definition  of 
Poetry,  nor  answer  the  question  what  it  is.  Like  Reli- 
gion, Love,  Nature,  while  those  terms  are  indispensable, 
and  we  all  give  a  sufficiently  accurate  meaning  to  them, 
in  my  opinion  no  definition  that  has  ever  been  made 
sufficiently  encloses  the  name  Poetry;  nor  can  any 
rule  or  convention  ever  so  absolutely  obtain  but  some 
great  exception  may  arise  and  disregard  and  overturn  it. 

'  But  it  is  not  on  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  distinctively  as 
literature,  or  a  specimen  thereof,  that  I  feel  to  dwell, 
or  advance  claims.  No  one  will  get  at  my  verses  who 
Muists  upon  viewing  them  as  a  literary  performance. 


QUICKSAND  YEARS 

QUICKSAND  years  that  whirl  me  I  know 

not  whither, 
Your  schemes,  politics,  fail,  lines  give  way, 

substances  mock  and  elude  me, 
Only   the    theme    I    sing,   the   great    and 

strong-possess'd  soul,  eludes  not, 
One's-self  must  never  give  way  —  that  is 

the  final  substance  —  that  out  of   all   is 

sure, 
Out  of  politics,  triumphs,  battles,  life,  what 

at  last  finally  remains  ? 
When  shows  break  up  what  but  One's-Self 

is  sure  ? 

1865. 


HERS      MAY     PRAISE     WHAT 
THEY  LIKE 

OTHERS  may  praise  what  they  like; 

But  I,  from  the  banks  of  the  running  Mis- 
souri, praise  nothing  in  art  or  aught 
else, 

Till  it  has  well  inhaled  the  atmosphere 
of  this  river,  also  the  western  prairie- 
scent, 

And  exudes  it  all  again. 


THICK-SPRINKLED  BUNTING* 

THICK-SPRINKLED  bunting  !  flag  of  stars  ! 
Long  yet  your  road,  fateful  flag  —  long  yet 

your  road,  and  lined  with  bloody  death, 
For  the  prize  I  see  at  issue  at  last  is  the 

world, 
All  its  ships  and  shores  I  see  interwoven 

with  your  threads  greedy  banner; 
Dream'd  again  the  flags  of  kings,  highest 

borne,  to  flaunt  unrival'd  ? 
O  hasten  flag  of  man  —  O  with   sure  and 

steady    step,    passing    highest   flags    of 

kings, 
Walk    supreme    to    the    heavens    mighty 

symbol  —  run  up  above  them  all, 
Flag  of  stars  !  thick-sprinkled  bunting  ! 

1865. 

or  attempt  at  such  performance,  or  as  aiming  mainly 
toward  art  or  aestheticism.' 

*  In  the  original  edition  both  the  title  and  the  firs; 
line  read :  — 


Flag  i 


,  thick-tprinkled  bunting 


WALT    WHITMAN 


BATHED    IN   WAR'S    PERFUME1 

BATHED  in  war's  perfume  —  delicate  flag  ! 

O  to  hear  you  call  the  sailors  and  the  sol- 
diers !  flag  like  a  beautiful  woman  ! 

O  to  hear  the  tramp,  tramp,  of  a-  million 
answering  men  !  O  the  ships  they  arm 
with  joy  ! 

O  to  see  you  leap  and  beckon  from  the  tall 
masts  of  ships  ! 

O  to  see  you  peering  down  on  the  sailors 
on  the  decks  ! 

Flag  like  the  eyes  of  women. 

1865. 


O    CAPTAIN!    MY   CAPTAIN! 

O  CAPTAIN  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip 

is  done, 
The    ship  has  weather'd   every  rack,    the 

prize  we  sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  peo- 
ple all  exulting, 

While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  ves- 
sel grim  and  daring; 

But  O  heart !  heart  !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red,2 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain 

lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear 

the  bells; 
Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for 

you  the  bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon 'd  wreaths  — 

for  you  the  shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their 
eager  faces  turning; 

Here  Captain  !  dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head  !  s 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the 

deck, 
You  've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are 

pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no 

pulse  nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,4  its 

voyage  closed  and  done, 

1  Omitted  from  the  1871  and  later  editions. 

i  Leave  you  not  the  little  spot.    (1865.) 

3  O  Captain  !  dear  father 

This  arm  I  push  beneath  you.    (1865.) 

4  But  the  ship,  the  ship  is  anchored  safe.    (1865.) 


From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in 
with  object  won; 

Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells  ! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies,6 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

1865. 


WHEN    LILACS    LAST   IN   THE 
DOORYARD   BLOOM'D6 


WHEN  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 
And  the  great  star   early  droop'd   in  the 

western  sky  in  the  night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever- 

returning  spring. 


But 
Wal 


t  I  with  silent  tread 

lk  the  spot  my  Captain  lies.    (1865.) 

8  The  most  sonorous  anthem  ever  chanted  in  the 
church  of  the  world.  (SWDJBUHNB.)  See  Swinburne's 
comparison  of  this  poem  with  Lowell's  '  Commemora- 
tion Ode,'  in  Under  the  Microscope. 

—  I  see  the  President  almost  every  day,  as  I  happen 
to  live  where  he  passes  to  or  from  his  lodgings  out  of 
town.  ...  I  see  very  plainly  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S  dark 
brown  face,  with  the  deep-cut  lines,  the  eyes,  always  to 
me  with  a  deep  latent  sadness  in  the  expression.  We 
have  got  so  that  we  exchange  bows,  and  very  cordial 
ones.  .  .  .  None  of  the  artists  or  pictures  has  caught 
the  deep,  though  subtle  and  indirect  expression  of  this 
man's  face.  There  is  something  else  there.  One  of  the 
great  portrait  painters  of  two  -or  three  centuries  ago 
is  needed.  (WHITMAN,  Specimen  Dayi,  August  12,  1863. 
Complete  Prose  Works,  p.  37.) 

I  saw  him  on  his  return,  at  three  o'clock,  after  the 
performance  was  over.  He  was  in  his  plain  two-horse 
barouche,  and  loek'd  very  much  worn  and  tired;  the 
lines,  indeed,  of  vast  responsibilities,  intricate  ques- 
tions, and  demands  of  life  and  death,  cut  deeper  than 
ever  upon  his  dark  brown  face  ;  yet  all  the  old  good- 
ness, tenderness,  sadness,  and  canny  shrewdness,  un- 
derneath the  furrows.  (I  never  see  that  man  without 
feeling  that  he  is  one  to  become  personally  attach'd  to, 
for  his  combination  of  purest,  heartiest  tenderness,  and 
native  western  form  of  manliness.)  By  his  side  sat  his 
little  boy,  of  ten  years.  There  were  no  soldiers.  (Speci- 
men Days,  March  4,  1865.  Prose  Works,  p.  57.) 

He  leaves  for  America's  history  and  biography,  so 
far,  not  only  its  most  dramatic  reminiscence  —  he 
leaves,  in  my  opinion,  the  greatest,  best,  most  charac- 
teristic, artistic,  moral  personality.  Not  but  that  he 
had  faults,  and  show'd  them  in  the  Presidency  ;  but 
honesty,  goodness,  shrewdness,  conscience,  and  (a  new 
virtue,  unknown  to  other  lands,  and  hardly  yet  really 
known  here,  but  the  foundation  and  tie  of  all,  as  the 
future  will  grandly  develop),  UNIONISM,  in  its  truest 
and  amplest  sense,  form'd  the  hard-pan  of  his  charac- 
ter. These  he  seal'd  with  his  life.  (Specimen  Dayt, 
April  16,  1865.  Prose  Works,  pp.  61,  62.) 

See  also  in  Whitman's  Collect  '  The  Death  of  Abraham 
Lincoln.'  Complete  Prose  Works,  pp.  308,  309;  and  '  A 
Lincoln  Reminiscence,'  p.  331  ;  also,  in  November 
Boughs,  '  Abraham  Lincoln,'  Prose  Works,  pp.  436-438. 

It  is  not  out  of  place  to  add  here  Lincoln's  comment 
on  Whitman.  Seeing  him  walk  by  the  White  House, 
'  Mr.  Lincoln  '  (says  a  witness  of  the  scene,  whose  let- 
ter is  quoted  in  Bucke's  Life  of  Whitman,  p.  42)  '  asked 


582 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me 

you  bring. 
Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star 

in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 


O  powerful  western  fallen  star  ! 

O    shades    of    night  —  O    moody,  tearful 
night! 

O  great  star  disappear'd  —  O  the   black 
murk  that  hides  the  star  ! 

O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless  —  O 
helpless  soul  of  me  !  10 

O  harsh   surrounding   cloud  that  will  not 
free  my  soul. 

3 

In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house 
near  the  white- wash 'd  palings, 

Stands    the    lilac-bush   tall-growing   with 
heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 

With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  deli- 
cate, with  the  perfume  strong  I  love, 

With  every  leaf  a  miracle  —  and  from  this 
bush  in  the  dooryard, 

With  delicate-color'd  blossoms  and  heart- 
shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 

A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 


In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary  the  thrush,  20 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding 

the  settlements, 
Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life  (for  well  dear 

brother  I  know, 
If   thou  wast   not   granted    to   sing   thou 

would'st  surely  die.) 


Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land, 
amid  cities, 

who  that  was,  or  something  of  the  kind.  I  spoke  up, 
mentioning  the  name  Walt  Whitman,  and  said  he  was 
the  author  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  Mr.  Lincoln  did  not 
say  anything,  but  took  a  good  look,  till  Whitman  was 
quite  gone  by.  Then  he  said  (I  cannot  give  you  his 
way  of  saying  it,  but  it  was  quite  emphatic  and  odd), 
44  Well,  he  looks  like  a  MAN."  He  said  it  pretty  loud, 
but  in  a  sort  of  absent  way,  and  with  the  emphasis  on 
the  words  I  have  underscored.'  This  was  probably  in 
the  winter  of  1864-1865. 


Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where 

lately  the  violets  peep'd  from  the  ground, 

spotting  the  gray  ddbris, 
Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the 

lanes,  passing  the  endless  grass, 
Passing-  the   yellow-spear'cl  wheat,  every 

grain  from  its  shroud  in  the  dark-brown 

fields  uprisen, 
Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and 

pink  in  the  orchards,  30 

Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in 

the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 


Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 

Through  da}'  and  night  with  the  great  cloud 
darkening  the  land, 

With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags  with 
the  cities  draped  in  black, 

With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as 
of  crape-veil'd  women  standing, 

With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the 
flambeaus  of  the  night, 

With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  si- 
lent sea  of  faces  and  the  unbared  heads, 

With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin, 
and  the  sombre  faces, 

With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the 
thousand  voices  rising  strong  and  sol- 
emn, 40 

With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges 
pour'd  around  the  coffin, 

The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering 
organs  —  where  amid  these  you  journey, 

With  the  tolling  tolling  bells'  perpetual 
clang, 

Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 

I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 

7 

(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone, 
Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all 

I  bring, 
For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I 

chant  a  song  for  you  O  sane  and  sacred 

death. 

All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and 

early  lilies,  50 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms 

the  first, 
Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from 

the  bushes, 


WALT   WHITMAN 


583 


With   loaded   arms   I   come,   pouring   for 

you, 
For   you   and    the   coffins   all   of    you   O 

death.) 


O  western  orb  sailing  the  heaven, 

Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as 

a  month  since  I  walk'd, 
As   I   walk'd    in   silence    the    transparent 

shadowy  night, 
As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell  as  you 

bent  to  me  night  after  night, 
As  you  droop'd  from  the  sky  lew  down  as 

if  to  my  side  (while  the  other  stars  all 

look'd  on), 
As  we  wander'd  together  the  solemn  night 

(for  something  I  know  not  what  kept  me 

from  sleep),  60 

As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the 

rim  of  the  west  how  full  you  were  of 

woe, 
As  I  stood  on  the   rising  ground   in   the 

breeze  in  the  cool  transparent  night, 
As  I  watch'd  where  you  pass'd  and  was  lost 

in  the  nether  ward  black  of  the  night, 
As  my  soul  in  its  trouble  dissatisfied  sank, 

as  where  you  sad  orb, 
Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone. 


Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp, 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender,  I  hear  your 
notes,  I  hear  your  call, 

1  hear,  I  come  presently,  I  understand  you, 
But  a  moment  I  linger,  for  the  lustrous  star 

has  detain'd  me, 

The  star  my  departing  comrade  holds  and 
detains  ma.  70 


0  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead 
one  there  I  loved  ? 

And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large 

sweet  soul  that  has  gone  ? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave 

of  him  I  love  ? 

Sea-winds  blown  from  east  and  west, 
Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from 

the  Western  sea,  till  there  on  the  prairies 

meeting, 
These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my 

chant, 

1  '11  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 


O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls  ? 
And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang 

on  the  walls, 
To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love  ?  80 

Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and 
homes, 

With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown, 
and  the  gray  smoke  lucid  and  bright, 

With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gor- 
geous, indolent,  sinking  sun,  burning,  ex- 
panding the  air, 

With  the  fresh  sweet  herbage  under  foot, 
and  the  pale  green  leaves  of  the  trees 
prolific, 

In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast 
of  the  river,  with  a  wind-dapple  here  and 
there, 

With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many 
a  line  against  the  sky,  and  shadows, 

And  the  city  at  hand  with  dwellings  so 
dense,  and  stacks  of  chimneys, 

And  all  the  scenes  of  life  and  the  workshops, 
and  the  workmen  homeward  returning. 


Lo,  body  and  soul  —  this  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the 

sparkling  and   hurrying   tides,   and   the 

ships,  90 

The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and 

the  North  in  the  light,  Ohio's  shores  and 

flashing  Missouri, 
And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  cover'd 

with  grass  and  corn. 

Lo,  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and 

haughty, 
The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just-felt 

breezes, 

The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light, 
The  miracle  spreading  bathing  all,  the  ful- 

fill'd  noon, 
The   coming   eve   delicious,   the    welcome 

night  and  the  stars, 
Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man 

and  land. 


Sing  on,  sing  on  you  gray-brown  bird, 
Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses,  pour 

your  chant  from  the  bushes,  100 

Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars 

and  pines. 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Sing  on  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy 

song, 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost 


O  liquid  and  free  and  tender  ! 

O  wUd  and  loose  to  my  soul  —  O  wondrous 

singer ! 
You  only  I  hear  —  yet  the  star  holds  me 

(but  will  soon  depart), 
Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odor  holds  me. 


Now  while  I  sat  in   the  day  and   look'd 

forth, 
In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and 

the  fields  of  spring,  and  the  farmers  pre- 
paring their  crops, 
In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land 

with  its  lakes  and  forests,  no 

In  the   heavenly  aerial  beauty  (after  the 

perturb'd  winds  and  the  storms). 
Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon 

swift  passing,  and  the  voices  of  children 

and  women, 
The  many-moving  sea-tides,  and  I  saw  the 

ships  how  they  sail'd, 
And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness, 

and  the  fields  all  busy  with  labor, 
And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they 

all  went   on,  each   with   its   meals  and 

minutia  of  daily  usages, 
And    the    streets    how    their    throbbings 

throbb'd,  and  the  cities  pent  —  lo,  then 

and  there, 
Falling  upon  them  all  and  among  them  all, 

enveloping  me  with  the  rest, 
Appear'd    the    cloud,    appear'd    the    long 

black  trail, 
And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the 

sacred  knowledge  of  death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walk- 
ing one  side  of  me,  120 

And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking 
the  other  side  of  me, 

And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions, 
and  as  holding  the  hands  of  compan- 
ions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night 
that  talks  not, 

Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path 
by  the  swamp  in  the  dimness, 

To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  ghostly 
pines  so  still. 


And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd 

me, 
The   gray-brown  bird  I  know  receiv'd  us 

comrades  three, 
And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse 

for  him  1  love. 

[   From  deep  secluded  recesses, 
From  the  fragrant  cedars  and  the  ghostly 
pines  so  still,  i30 

Carae  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades 

in  the  night, 
And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song 

of  the  bird. 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving, 

arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 
Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  know- 
ledge curious,  140 

And  for  love,  sweet  love  —  but  praise  !  praise  ! 
praise  ! 

For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfold- 
ing death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft 
feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a^chant  of  fullest 
welcome  ? 

Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above 
all, 

I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  in- 
deed come,  come  unfalteringly. 

Approach  strong  deliveress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I 

joyously  sing  the  dead, 
Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss  0  death.      150 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  1  propose  saluting  thee,  adorn- 
ments and  f eastings  for  thee, 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the 
high-spread  sky  are  fitting, 

And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and 
thoughtful  night. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 
The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering 

wave  whose  voice  I  know, 
And  the  soul  turning  to  thee  0  vast  and  well- 

veil'd  death, 
A  nd  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the 
myriad  fields  and  the  prairies  wide,  160 

Over  the  dense-packed  cities  all  and  the  teem- 
ing wharves  and  ways, 

I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee  0 
death. 

'5 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 
Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown 

bird, 
With  pure  deliberate  notes  spreading  filling 

the  night. 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 
Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp- 
perfume, 
And  I  with  my  comrades  there  m  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes 

unclosed, 
As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions.  170 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of 

battle-flags, 
Borne   through  the   smoke  of   the  battles 

and  pierc'd  with  missiles  I  saw  them, 
And  carried  hither  and  yon   through   the 

smoke,  and  torn  and  bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the 

staffs  (and  all  in  silence), 
And  the  staffs  all  splmter'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 
And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I 

saw  them, 
I  saw  the  debris' and  de"bris  of  all  the  slain 

soldiers  of  the  war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought,  180 
They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they 

suffer'd  not, 
The  living  remain'd  and  suffer'd,  the  mother 

suffer'd, 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing 

comrade  suffer'd, 
And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffer'd. 


Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night, 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  com- 
rades' hands, 

Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the 
tallying  song  of  my  soul, 

Victorious  song,  death's  outlet  song,  yet 
varying  ever-altering  song, 

As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes, 
rising  and  falling,  flooding  the  night, 

Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and 
warning,  and  yet  again  bursting  with 
joy,  190 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of 
the  heaven, 

As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard 
from  recesses, 

Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac  with  heart- 
shaped  leaves, 

I  leave  thee  there  in  the  door-yard,  bloom- 
ing, returning  with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee, 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting 

the  west,  communing  with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the 

night. 

Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out 

of  the  night, 

The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray- 
brown  bird, 
And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd 

in  my  soul,  200 

With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star  with 

the  countenance  full  of  woe, 
With  the  holders  holding  my  hand  nearing 

the  call  of  the  bird, 
Comrades  mine  and  I   in  the  midst,  and 

their  memory  ever  to  keep,  for  the  dead 

I  loved  so  well, 
For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days 

and  lands  —  and  this  for  his  dear  sake, 
Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the 

chant  of  my  soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars 

dusk  and  dim. 

1865. 

HUSH'D  BE  THE  CAMPS  TO-DAY 

MAY  4,    1865 

HUSH'D  be  the  camps  to-day, 
And  soldiers   let  us  drape  our  war-worn 
weapons, 


586 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


And  each  with  musing  soul  retire  to  cele- 
brate, 
Our  dear  commander's  death. 

No  more  for  him  life's  stormy  conflicts, 
Nor  victory,  nor  defeat  —  no  more  time's 

dark  events, 
Charging  like  ceaseless  clouds  across  the 

sky. 

But  sing  poet  in  our  name, 
Sing  of  the  love  we  bore  him  —  because 
you,  dweller  in  camps,  know  it  truly. 

As  they  invault  the  coffin  there, 

Sing  —  as  they  close    the   doors  of   earth 

upon  him  —  one  verse,1 
For  the  heavy  hearts  of  soldiers. 

1865. 


OLD   WAR-DREAMS2 

IN  midnight  sleep  of  many  a  face  of  anguish, 
Of  the  look  at  first  of  the  mortally  wounded 

(of  that  indescribable  look), 
(K  the  dead  on  their  backs  with  arms  ex- 
tended wide, 

I  dream,  I  dream,  I  dream. 

Of  scenes  of  Nature,  fields  and  mountains, 
Of  skies  so  beauteous  after  a  storm,  and  at 

night  the  moon  so  unearthly  bright, 
Shining  sweetly,  shining  down,  where  we 

dig  the  trenches  and  gather  the  heaps, 
I  dream,  I  dream,  I  dream. 

Long  have  they  pass'd,  faces  and  trenches 

and  fields,     * 

Where  through  the  carnage  I  moved  with 
a  callous  composure,  or  away  from  the 
fallen, 

Onward  I  sped  at  the  time  —  but  now  of 
their  forms  at  night, 

I  dream,  I  dream,  I  dream. 

1865. 

1  In  the  original  version,  1865,  these  two  lines  read :  — 


The  change  was  made  in  the  edition  of  1881. 
'  In  the  original  version,  1865,  the  first  line  of  the 
poem  read :  — 


and  the  first  half  of  this  line 
poom. 


used  as  title  for  the 


RECONCILIATION 

WORD  over  all,  beautiful  as  the  sky, 

Beautiful  that  war  and  all  its  deeds  of  car- 
nage must  in  time  be  utterly  lost, 

That  the  hands  of  the  sisters  Death  and 
Night  incessantly  softly  wash  again,  and 
ever  again,  this  soil'd  world; 

For  my  enemy  is  dead,  a  man  divine  as  my- 
self is  dead, 

I  look  where  he  lies  white-faced  and  still  in 
the  coffin  —  I  draw  near, 

Bend  down  and  touch  lightly  with  my  lips 
the  white  face  in  the  coffin. 

1865. 


AS    I    LAY    WITH    MY    HEAD    IN 
YOUR    LAP    CAMERADO 

As  I  lay  with  my  head  in  your  lap  camerado, 

The  confession  I  made  I  resume,  what  I 
said  to  you  and  the  open  air  I  resume, 

I  know  I  am  restless  and  make  others  so, 

I  know  my  words  are  weapons  full  of  dan- 
ger, full  of  death,8 

For  I  confront  peace,  security,  and  all  the 
settled  laws,  to  unsettle  them, 

I  am  more  resolute  because  all  have  denied 
me  than  I  could  ever  have  been  had  all 
accepted  me, 

I  heed  not  and  have  never  heeded  either 
experience,  cautions,  majorities,  nor  ridi- 
cule, 

And  the  threat  of  what  is  call'd  hell  is  little 
or  nothing  to  me, 

And  the  lure  of  what  is  call'd  heaven  is 
little  or  nothing  to  me; 

Dear  camerado  !  I  confess  I  have  urged 
you  onward  with  me,  and  still  urge  you, 
without  the  least  idea  what  is  our  desti- 
nation, 

Or  whether  we  shall  be  victorious,  or  ut- 
terly quell'd  and  defeated. 


ABOARD   AT   A   SHIP'S    HELM 

ABOARD  at  a  ship's  helm, 

A  young  steersman  steering  with  care. 

3  In  the  original  edition   there   followed  here  two 
lines  since  omitted  :  — 

(Indeed  I  am  myself  the  real  soldier ; 

It  is  not  he,  there,  with  his  bayonet,  and  not  the  red-striped 
artilleryman) ; 


WALT  WHITMAN 


587 


Through  fog  ou  a  sea-coast  dolefully  ring- 

ing, 
An  ocean-bell  —  O  a  warning  bell,  rock'd 

by  the  waves. 

O  you  give  good  notice  indeed,  you  bell  by 

the  sea-reefs  ringing, 
Ringing,  ringing,  to  warn  the  ship  from  its 

wreck-place. 

For  as  on  the  alert  O  steersman,  you  mind 

the  loud  admonition, 
The  bows  turn,  the  freighted  ship  tacking 

speeds  away  under  her  gray  sails, 
The  beautiful  and  noble  ship  with  all  her 

precious  wealth  speeds  away  gayly  and 

safe. 

But  O  the  ship,  the  immortal  ship  !  O  ship 

aboard  the  ship  ! 
Ship  of  the  body,  ship  of  the  soul,  voyaging, 

voyaging,  voyaging. 

1867. 


NOT   THE   PILOT1 

NOT  the  pilot  has  charged  himself  to  bring 
his  ship  into  port,  though  beaten  back 
and  many  times  baffled; 

Not  the  pathfinder  penetrating  inland  weary 
and  long, 

By  deserts  parch'd,  snows  chill'd,  rivers 
wet,  perseveres  till  he  reaches  his  desti- 
nation, 

More  than  I  have  charged  myself,  heeded 
or  unheeded,  to  compose  a  march  for 
these  States, 

For  a  battle-call,  rousing  to  arms  if  need 
be,  years,  centuries  hence. 

1867. 


1  Compare  Whitman's  Democratic  Vistas,  in  the 
Complete  Prose  Works,  pp.  197-250;  especially  pp.  199, 
200,  202,  203  :  — 

Our  fundamental  want  to-day  in  the  United  States, 
with  closest,  amplest  reference  to  present  conditions, 
and  to  the  future,  is  of  a  class,  and  the  clear  idea  of  a 
class,  of  native  authors,  ...  fit  to  cope  with  our  occa- 
sions, lands,  permeating  the  whole  mass  of  American 
mentality,  taste,  belief,  breathing  into  it  a  new  breath 
of  life,  giving  it  decision.  .  .  .  For,  I  say,  the  true  na- 
tionality of  the  States,  the  genuine  union,  when  we 
come  to  a  moral  crisis,  is,  and  is  to  be,  after  all,  neither 
the  written  law  nor,  (as  is  generally  supposed),  either 
self-interest,  or  common  pecuniary  or  material  objects 
—  but  the  fervid  and  tremendous  Idea,  melting  every- 
thing else  with  resistless  heat,  and  solving  all  lesser 
and  definite  distinctions  in  vast,  indefinite,  spiritual, 
emotional  power. 


ONE'S-SELF    I    SING2 


ONE'S-SELF  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  per- 
son, 

Yet  utter  the  word  Democratic,  the  word 
En-Masse. 

Of  physiology  from  top  to  toe  I  sing, 
Not  physiognomy  alone  nor  brain  alone  is 

worthy  for  the  Muse  —  I  say  the  Form 

complete  is  worthier  far, 
The  Female  equally  with  the  Male  I  sing. 

Of   Life   immense   in   passion,  pulse,  and 

power, 
Cheerful,  for  freest   action   form'd   under 

the  laws  divine, 
The  Modern  Man  I  sing. 

1867,  1871. 


TEARS 

TEARS  !  tears  !  tears  ! 

In  the  night,  in  solitude,  tears, 

On    the    white    shore    dripping,   dripping, 

suck'd  in  by  the  sand, 
Tears,   not  a   star   shining,  all   dark   and 

desolate, 
Moist   tears    from  the  eyes  of   a   muffled 

head; 
O  who  is  that   ghost?  that   form   in   the 

dark,  with  tears  ? 
What  shapeless  lump  is  that,  bent,  crouch'd 

there  on  the  sand  ? 
Streaming    tears,    sobbing    tears,    throes, 

choked  with  wild  cries; 
O  storm,  embodied,  rising,  careering  with 

swift  steps  along  the  beach  ! 

*  This  poem  is  now  placed  first  in  the  standard  edi- 
tions of  Whitman's  Poems.  In  its  original  form,  as  the 
Inscription  of  the  1867  edition,  it  read :  — 

SMALL  is  the  theme  of  the  following  Chant,  yet  the  greatest 
-namely,  ONE'S-SELF -that  wondrous  thing,  a  simple, 
separate  person.  That,  for  the  use  of  the  New  World,  I 
sing. 

Man's  physiology  complete,  from  top  to  toe,  I  sing.  Not 
physiognomy  alone,  nor  brain  alone,  is  worthy  for  the 
muse; -I  say  the  Form  complete  is  worthier  far.  The 
female  equally  with  the  male,  I  sing. 

Nor  cease  at  the  theme  of  One's-Self .  'I  speak  the  word  of  the 
modern,  the  word  EN-MASSE. 

Mv  Days  I  sing,  and  the  Lands- with  interstice  I  knew  of 

0  friend,  whoe'er  you  are,  at  last  arriving  hither  to  com- 
mence, I  feel  through  every  leaf  the  pressure  of  your  hand, 
which  I  return.    And  thus  upon  our  journey  hnk'd  to- 
gether let  us  go. 

This  version,  in  a  slightly  revised  form,  beginning 

1  Small  the  theme  of  my  chant,'  is  now  printed  as  a 
separate  poem  in  the  final  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass 


588 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


O  wild  and  dismal  night  storm,  with  wind 

—  O  belching  and  desperate  ! 

0  shade  so  sedate  and  decorous  by  day,  with 
calm  countenance  and  regulated  pace, 

But  away  at  night  as  you  fly,  none  looking 

—  O  then  the  unloosen'd  ocean, 
Of  tears  !  tears  !  tears  ! 

1867. 

WHISPERS   OF   HEAVENLY 
DEATH 

WHISPERS  of  heavenly  death  murmur'd  I 
hear, 

Labial  gossip  of  night,  sibilant  chorals, 

Footsteps  gently  ascending,  mystical 
breezes  wafted  soft  and  low, 

Ripples  of  unseen  rivers,  tides  of  a  current 
flowing,  forever  flowing, 

(Or  is  it  the  plashing  of  tears  ?  the  mea- 
sureless waters  of  human  tears  ?  ) 

1  see,  just  see  skyward,  great  cloud-masses, 
Mournfully  slowly  they  roll,  silently  swell- 
ing and  mixing, 

With  at  times  a  half-dimm'd  sadden'd  far.- 

off  star, 
Appearing  and  disappearing. 

(Some  parturition  rather,  some  solemn  im- 
mortal birth; 

On  the  frontiers  to  eyes  impenetrable, 
Some  soul  is  passing  over.) 

1868.   (1871.) 

THE  SINGER  IN   THE   PRISON 


O  sight  of  pity,  shame  and  dole  ! l 
O  fearful  thought  —  a  convict  soul. 

RANG  the  refrain  along  the  hall,  the  prison, 
Rose  to  the  roof,  the  vaults  of  heaven  above, 
Pouring  in  floods  of  melody  in  tones  so  pen- 
sive sweet  and  strong  the  like  whereof  was 
never  heard, 
Reaching  the  far-off  sentry  and  the  armed 


guards,  who  ceas'd  their  pacing, 
Making  the  hearer's  pulses  stop  fc 


and  awe. 


or  ecstasy 


2  2 


The  sun  was  low  in  the  west  one  winter  day, 
When  down  a  narrow  aisle  amid  the  thieves 
and  outlaws  of  the  land, 


1  O  right  of  diame,  and  pain,  and  rlole .'  (1869,  I871.| 
1  In  the  eaily  editions  this  section  begins  :  — 


(There  by  the  hundreds  seated,  sear-faced 
murderers,  wily  counterfeiters,  i0 

Gather'd  to  Sunday  church  in  prison  walls, 
the  keepers  round, 

Plenteous,  well-armed,  watching  with  vigi- 
lant eyes,) 

Calmly  a  lady  walk'd  holding  a  little  inno- 
cent child  by  either  hand, 

Whom  seating  on  their  stools  beside  her  on 
the  platform, 

She,  first  preluding  with  the  instrument  a 
low  and  musical  prelude, 

In  voice  surpassing  all,  sang  forth  a  quaint 
old  hymn. 

A  soul  confined  by  bars  and  bands,  3 
Cries,  help  !  O  help  !  and  wrings  her  hands, 
Blinded  her  eyes,  bleeding  her  breast, 
Nor  pardon  finds,  nor  balm  of  rest.  20 

Ceaseless  she  paces  to  and  fro, 
O  heart-sick  days  !  O  nights  of  woe  ! 
Nor  hand  of  friend,  nor  loving  face, 
Nor  favor  comes,  nor  word  of  grace. 

It  was  not  I  that  sinn'd  the  sin, 
The  ruthless  body  dragg'd  me  in; 
Though  long  I  strove  courageously, 
The  body  was  too  much  for  me. 

Dear  prison'd  soul  bear  up  a  space, 
For  soon  or  late  the  certain  grace;  30 

To  set  thee  free  and  bear  thee  home, 
The  heavenly  pardoner  death  shall  come. 

Convict  no  more,  nor  shame,  nor  dole  ! 
Depart  —  a  God-enfranchised  soul ! 


The  singer  ceas'd, 

One  glance  swept  from  her  clear  calm  eyes 
o'er  all  those  upturn'd  faces, 

Strange  sea  of  prison  faces,  a  thousand  va- 
ried, crafty,  brutal,  seam'd  and  beauteous 
faces, 

Then  rising,  passing  back  along  the  narrow 
aisle  between  them, 

While  her  gown  touch'd  them  rustling  in 
the  silence, 

She  vanish'd  with  her  children  in  the  dusk. 

3  In  the  early  editions  these  stanzas  have  a  sub-title 
1  The  Hymn,'  and  each  stanza  is  followed  by  a  refrain, 
in  italics  :  after  the  first  stanza,  the  same  as  at  the  be- 
ginning of  Section  1  ;  after  the  second  stanza,  the  saint 
as  at  the  beginning  of  Section  2  ;  after  the  third  stanza: 
O  lift :  no  lift,  tm1  bitter  rlole  .' 
O  burning,  beaten,  bajflert  Xonl  ! 


WALT   WHITMAN 


589 


While  upon  all,  convicts  and  armed  keepers 

ere  they  stirr'd  41 

(Convict    forgetting    prison,     keeper     his 

loaded  pistol), 
A  hush  and  pause  fell  down  a   wondrous 

minute, 
With   deep  half-stifled  sobs  and  sound  of 

bad  men  bow'd  and  moved  to  weeping, 
And  youth's  convulsive  breathings,  memo- 
ries of  home, 
The  mother's  voice  in  lullaby,  the  sister's 

care,  the  happy  childhood, 
The  long-pent  spirit  rous'd  to  reminiscence ; 
A  wondrous  minute  then  —  but  after  in  the 

solitary  night,  to  many,  many  there, 
Years  after,  even  in  the  hour  of  death,  the 

sad  refrain,  the  tune,  the  voice,  the  words, 
Resumed,  the  large  calm   lady  walks  the 

narrow  aisle,  50 

The  wailing  melody  again,  the  singer  in  the 

prison  sings, 

0  sight  of  pity,  shame  and  dole  !  l 
0  fearful  thought  —  a  convict  soul. 

1869.  (1871.) 


ETHIOPIA    SALUTING    THE 
COLORS 

WHO  are  you  dusky  woman,  so   ancient 

hardly  human, 
With  your  woolly-white  and  turban 'd  head, 

and  bare  bony  feet  ? 
Why  rising  by  the  roadside  here,  do  you 

the  colors  greet  ? 

('T  is  while  our  army  lines  Carolina's  sands 
and  pines, 

Forth  from  thy  hovel  door  thou  Ethiopia 
com'st  to  me, 

As  under  doughty  Sherman  I  march  to- 
ward the  sea.) 

Me  master  years  a  hundred  since  from  my 

parents  sundered, 
A  little  child,  they  caught  me  as  the  savage 

beaut  is  caught, 
Then  hither  me  across  the  sea  the  cruel  slaver 

brought. 

No  further  does  she  say,  but  lingering  all 
the  day, 

1  The  early  editions  have  the  game  variant  reading 
here  as  in  the  first  line. 


Her  high-borne  turban'd  head  she  wags, 
and  rolls  her  darkling  eye, 

And  courtesies  to  the  regiments,  the  guid- 
ons moving  by. 

What  is  it  fateful  woman,  so  blear,  hardly 

human  ? 
Why   wag  your  head  with  turban  bound, 

yellow,  red  and  green  ? 
Are  the  things  so  strange  and  marvelous 

you  see  or  have  seen  ? 

1871. 


DELICATE   CLUSTER 

DELICATE  cluster  !  flag  of  teeming  life  ! 
Covering  all  my  lands  —  all  my  seashores 

lining  ! 
Flag  of  death  !   (how  I  watch 'd  you  through 

the  smoke  of  battle  pressing  ! 
How   I  heard  you   flap   and   rustle,   cloth 

defiant !) 
Flag  cerulean  —  sunny  flag,  with  the  orbs 

of  night  dappled  ! 
Ah   my   silvery    beauty  —  ah    my   woolly 

white  and  crimson  ! 
Ah  to  sing  the  song  of  you,  my   matron 

mighty  ! 
My  sacred  one,  my  mother. 

1871. 


THE   BASE    OF   ALL   META- 
PHYSICS 

AND  now  gentlemen, 

A  word  I  give  to  remain  in  your  memories 

and  minds, 
As  base  and  finale  too  for  all  metaphysics. 

(So  to  the  students  the  old  professor, 
At  the  close  of  his  crowded  course.) 

Having  studied  the  new  and  antique,  the 

Greek  and  Germanic  systems, 
Kant  having  studied  and  stated,  Fichte  and 

Schelling  and  Hegel, 
Stated   the   lore    of    Plato,   and   Socrates 

greater  than  Plato, 
And   greater   than    Socrates    sought    and 

stated,  Christ  divine  having  studied  long, 
I  see  reminiscent  to-day  those  Greek  and 

Germanic  systems, 
See  the  philosophies  all,  Christian  churches 

and  tenets  see, 


59° 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Yet  underneath  Socrates  clearly  see,  and 
underneath  Christ  the  divine  I  see, 

The  dear  love  of  man  for  his  comrade,  the 
attraction  of  friend  to  friend, 

Of  the  well-married  husband  and  wife,  of 
children  and  parents, 

Of  city  for  city  and  land  for  land. 

1871. 


ON   THE    BEACH    AT    NIGHT 

ON  the  beach  at  night, 
Stands  a  child  with  her  father, 
Watching  the  east,  the  autumn  sky. 

Up  through  the  darkness, 

While  ravening  clouds,  the  burial  clouds,  in 
black  masses  spreading, 

Lower  sullen  and  fast  athwart  and  down 
the  sky, 

Amid  a  transparent  clear  belt  of  ether  yet 
left  in  the  east, 

Ascends  large  and  calm  the  lord-star  Jupi- 
ter, 

And  nigh  at  hand,  only  a  very  little  above, 

Swim  the  delicate  sisters  the  Pleiades.      10 

From  the  beach  the  child  holding  the  hand 

of  her  father, 
Those  burial-clouds  that  lower  victorious 

soon  to  devour  all, 
Watching,  silently  weeps. 

Weep  not,  child, 

Weep  not,  my  darling, 

With  these  kisses  let  me  remove  your  tears, 

The  ravening  clouds  shall  not  long  be  vic- 
torious, 

They  shall  not  long  possess  the  sky,  they 
devour  the  stars  only  in  apparition, 

Jupiter  shall  emerge,  be  patient,  watch 
again  another  night,  the  Pleiades  shall 
emerge, 

They  are  immortal,  all  those  stars  both 
silvery  and  golden  shall  shine  out  again, 

The  great  stars  and  the  little  ones  shall 
shine  out  again,  they  endure,  21 

The  vast  immortal  suns  and  the  long- 
enduring  pensive  moons  shall  again  shine. 

Then  dearest  child  mournest  thou  only  for 

Jupiter  ? 
Considerest  thou  alone  the  burial   of   the 

stars  ? 


Something  there  is, 

(With  my  lips  soothing  thee,  adding  I 
whisper, 

I  give  thee  the  first  suggestion,  the  prob- 
lem and  indirection,) 

Something  there  is  more  immortal  even 
than  the  stars, 

(Many  the  burials,  many  the  days  and 
nights,  passing  away,) 

Something  that  shall  endure  longer  even 
than  lustrous  Jupiter,  3o 

Longer  than  sun  or  any  revolving  satellite, 

Or  the  radiant  sisters  the  Pleiades. 


A   NOISELESS  PATIENT  SPIDER 

A  NOISELESS  patient  spider, 

I  mark'd  where  on  a  little  promontory  it 
stood  isolated, 

Mark'd  how  to  explore  the  vacant  vast  sur- 
rounding, 

It  launch'd  forth  filament,  filament,  fila- 
ment, out  of  itself, 

Ever  unreeling  them,  ever  tirelessly  speed- 
ing them. 

And  you  O  my  soul  where  you  stand, 
Surrounded, detached,  in  measureless  oceans 

of  space, 
Ceaselessly   musing,   venturing,   throwings 

seeking  the  spheres  to  connect  them, 
Till  the  bridge  you  will  need  be  form'd,  till 

the  ductile  anchor  hold, 
Till  the  gossamer  thread  you  fling  catch 

somewhere,  O  my  soul. 

1871. 


PASSAGE    TO    INDIA1 


SINGING  my  days, 

Singing  the  great  achievements  of  the  pre- 
sent, 

i  Compare  the  passage  from  Whitman's  Prose  Work 
quoted  in  a  note  at  the  end  of  '  A  Broadway  Pageant,' 
and  also,  especially  (among  many  other  passages),  Speci- 
men Days,  July  22  and  23, 1878,  Complete  Prose  Works, 
pp.  Ill,  112;  and  the  following  paragraphs  from  the 
note  on  '  Passage  to  India  '  in  the  Preface  of  the  1876 
edition  (Complete  Prose  Works,  pp.  272-274) :  — 

I  am  not  sure  but  the  last  inclosing  sublimation  of 
race  or  poem  is,  what  it  thinks  of  death.  After  the  rest 
has  been  comprehended  and  said,  even  the  grandest  — 
after  those  contributions  to  mightiest  nationality,  or  to 


WALT   WHITMAN 


591 


Singing  the  strong  light  works  of  engi- 
neers, 

Our  modern  wonders  (the  antique  ponder- 
ous Seven  outvied), 

In  the  Old  World  the  east  the  Suez  canal, 

The  New  by  its  mighty  railroad  spann'd, 

The  seas  inlaid  with  eloquent  gentle  wires; 

Yet  first  to  sound,  and  ever  sound,  the  cry 
with  thee  O  soul, 

The  Past !  the  Past !  the  Past ! 

The  Past —  the  dark  unfathom'd  retrospect ! 
The  teeming  gulf  —  the  sleepers  and  the 

shadows  !  1 1 

The  past  —  the   infinite   greatness  of   the 

past! 
For  what  is  the  present   after  all  but  a 

growth  out  of  the  past  ? 
(As  a  projectile  form'd,  impell'd,  passing  a 

certain  line,  still  keeps  on, 
So  the  present,  utterly  form'd,  impell'd  by 

the  past.) 


Passage  O  soul  to  India  ! 
Eclaircise  the  myths  Asiatic,  the  primitive 
fables. 

sweetest  song,  or  to  the  best  personalism,  male  or  female, 
have  been  glean'd  from  the  rich  and  varied  themes  of 
tangible  life,  and  have  been  fully  accepted  and  sung, 
and  the  pervading  fact  of  visible  existence,  with  the 
duty  it  devolves,  is  rounded  and  apparently  completed, 
it  still  remains  to  be  really  completed  by  suffusing 
through  the  whole  and  several,  that  other  pervading 
invisible  fact,  so  large  a  part  (is  it  not  the  largest 
part?)  of  life  here,  combining  the  rest,  and  furnishing, 
for  person  or  State,  the  only  permanent  and  unitary 
meaning  to  all,  even  the  meanest  life,  consistently  with 
the  dignity  of  the  universe,  in  Time.  As  from  the  eligi- 
bility to  this  thought,  and  the  cheerful  conquest  of  this 
fact,  flash  forth  the  first  distinctive  proofs  of  the  soul, 
so  to  me  (extending  it  only  a  little  further),  the  ulti- 
mate Democratic  purports,  the  ethereal  and  spiritual 
ones,  are  to  concentrate  here,  and  as  fixed  stars,  radiate 
hence.  For,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  no  less  than  this  idea 
of  immortality,  above  all  other  ideas,  that  is  to  enter 
into,  and  vivify,  and  give  crowning  religious  stamp,  to 
democracy  in  the  New  World. 

[Here  follows  the  paragraph  already  quoted  at  the 
?nd  of  note  1  on  p.  546 ;  then,  after  speaking  of  his 
own  paralysis  and  his  mother's  death,  Whitman  con- 
cludes :  — ] 

Under  these  influences,  therefore,  I  still  feel  to  keep 
•  Passage  to  India '  for  last  words.  .  .  .  Not  as,  in  anti- 
quity, at  highest  festival  of  Egypt,  the  noisome  skeleton 
of  death  was  sent  on  exhibition  to  the  revelers,  for  zest 
and  shadow  to  the  occasion's  joy  and  light  —  but  as  the 
marble  statue  of  the  normal  Greeks  at  Elis,  suggesting 
death  in  the  form  of  a  beautiful  and  perfect  young 
man,  with  closed  eyes,  leaning  on  an  inverted  torch  — 
emblem  of  rest  and  aspiration  after  action  —  of  crown 
and  point  which  all  lives  and  poems  should  steadily 
have  reference  to,  namely,  the  justified  and  noble  ter- 
mination of  our  identity,  this  grade  of  it,  and  outlet- 
preparation  to  another  grade. 


Not  you  alone  proud  truths  of  the  world, 
Not  you  alone  ye  facts  of  modern  science, 
But  myths  and  fables  of  eld,  Asia's,  Africa's 

fables, 
The  far-darting  beams  of  the  spirit,  the 

unloos'd  dreams, 

The  deep  diving  bibles  and  legends, 
The  daring  plots  of  the  poets,   the   elder 

religions ; 
O  you  temples  fairer  than  lilies  pour'd  over 

by  the  rising  sun  ! 
O  you  fables  spurning  the  known,  eluding 

the    hold    of    the    known,   mounting   to 

heaven  ! 
You  lofty  and  dazzling  towers,  pinnacled, 

red  as  roses,  burnish'd  with  gold  ! 
Towers  of  fables  immortal  fashion'd  from 

mortal  dreams  ! 
You  too  I  welcome  and  fully  the  same  a^ 

the  rest ! 
You  too  with  joy  I  sing. 

Passage  to  India  !  3a 

Lo,  soul,  seest  thou  not  God's  purpose  from 
the  first  ? 

The  earth  to  be  spann'd,  connected  by  net- 
work,'2 

The  races,  neighbors,  to  marry  and  be  given 
in  marriage, 

The  oceans  to  be  cross 'd,  the  distant  brought 
near, 

The  lands  to  be  welded  together. 

A  worship  new  I  sing, 

You  captains,  voyagers,  explorers,  yours, 

You  engineers,  you  architects,  machinists, 

yours, 

You,  not  for  trade  or  transportation  only, 
But  in  God's  name,  and  for  thy  sake  O  soul. 


Passage  to  India  !  4i 

Lo  soul  for  thee  of  tableaus  twain, 
I  see  in  one  the  Suez  canal  initiated,  open'd, 
I  see  the  procession  of  steamships,  the  Em- 
press Eugenie's  leading  the  van, 
I  mark  from  on  deck  the  strange  landscape, 
the  pure  sky,  the  level  sand  in  the  dis- 
tance, 
I  pass  swiftly  the  picturesque  groups,  the 

workmen  gather'd, 
The  gigantic  dredging  machines. 

1  Here  follows,  in  the  original  edition,  the  line :  — 
The  people  to  become  brothers  and  sisters. 


592 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


In  one  again,  different  (yet  thine,  all  thine, 

0  soul,  the  same), 

I  see  over  my  own  continent  the  Pacific 
railroad  surmounting  every  barrier, 

I  see  continual  trains  of  cars  winding  along 
the  Platte  carrying  freight  and  pas- 
sengers, 50 

I  hear  the  locomotives  rushing  and  roaring, 
and  the  shrill  steam-whistle, 

I  hear  the  echoes  reverberate  through  the 
grandest  scenery  in  the  world, 

I  cross  the  Laramie  plains,  I  note  the  rocks 
in  grotesque  shapes,  the  buttes, 

I  see  the  plentiful  larkspur  and  wild  onions, 
the  barren,  colorless,  sage-deserts, 

I  see  in  glimpses  afar  or  towering  imme- 
diately above  me  the  great  mountains, 

1  see  the  Wind  river  and  the  Wahsatch 
mountains, 

I   see   the   Monument   mountain   and   the 

Eagle's  Nest,  I  pass  the  Promontory,  I 

ascend  the  Nevadas, 
I  scan  the  noble  Elk  mountain  and  wind 

around  its  base, 
I   see  the   Humboldt  range,   I  thread  the 

valley  and  cross  the  river, 
I  see  the  clear  waters  of  lake  Tahoe,  I  see 

forests  of  majestic  pines, 
Or  crossing  the  great  desert,  the  alkaline 

plains,  I  behold  enchanting  mirages  of 

waters  and  meadows,  60 

Marking  through  these   and  after  all,  in 

duplicate  slender  lines, 
Bridging  the  three  or  four  thousand  miles 

of  land  travel, 

Tying  the  Eastern  to  the  Western  sea, 
The  road  between  Europe  and  Asia. 

(Ah  Genoese  thy  dream  !  thy  dream  ! 
Centuries  after  thou  art  laid  in  thy  grave, 
The     shore     thou     foundest    verifies    thy 
dream.) 


Passage  to  India ! 

Struggles  of  many  a  captain,  tales  of  many 

a  sailor  dead, 
Over  my  mood  stealing  and  spreading  they 

come,  70 

Like  clouds  and  cloudlets  in  the  unreach'd 

sky. 

Along  all  history,  down  the  slopes, 
As  a  rivulet  running,  sinking  now,  and  now 
again  to  the  surface  rising, 


A  ceaseless  thought,  a  varied  train  —  lo, 
soul,  to  thee,  thy  sight,  they  rise, 

The  plans,  the  voyages  again,  the  expedi- 
tions ; 

Again  Vasco  de  Gama  sails  forth, 

Again  the  knowledge  gain'd,  the  mariner's 
compass, 

Lands  found  and  nations  born,  thou  born 
America, 

For  purpose  vast,  man's  lone  probation 
fill'd, 

Thou  rondure  of  the  world  at  last  accom- 
plish'd.  so 


O  vast  Rondure,  swimming  in  space, 

Cover'd  all  over  with  visible  power  and 
beauty, 

Alternate  light  and  day  and  the  teeming 
spiritual  darkness, 

Unspeakable  high  processions  of  sun  and 
moon  and  countless  stars  above, 

Below,  the  manifold  grass  and  waters,  ani- 
mals, mountains,  trees, 

With  inscrutable  purpose,  some  hidden 
prophetic  intention, 

Now  first  it  seems  my  thought  begins  to 
span  thee. 

Down  from  the  gardens  of  Asia  descending 
radiating, 

Adam  and  Eve  appear,  then  their  myriad 
progeny  after  them, 

Wandering,  yearning,  curious,  with  restless 
explorations,  90 

With  questionings,  baffled,  formless,  fever- 
ish, with  never-happy  hearts, 

With  that  sad  incessant  refrain,  Wherefore 
unsatisfied  soul?  and  Whither  O  mocking 
life? 

Ah  who  shall  soothe  these  feverish  chil- 
dren ? 

Who  justify  these  restless  explorations  ? 

Who  speak  the  secret  of  impassive  earth  ? 

Who  bind  it  to  us  ?  what  is  this  separate 
Nature  so  unnatural  ? 

What  is  this  earth  to  our  affections  ?  (un- 
loving earth,  without  a  throb  to  answer 
ours, 

Cold  earth,  the  place  of  graves.) 

Yet  soul  be  sure  the  first  intent  remains, 

and  shall  be  carried  out, 
Perhaps  even  now  the  time  has  arrived.  100 


WALT   WHITMAN 


593 


After  the  seas  are  all  cross 'd  (as  they  seem 
already  cross'd), 

After  the  great  captains  and  engineers 
have  accomplish'd  their  work, 

After  the  noble  inventors,  after  the  scien- 
tists, the  chemist,  the  geologist,  ethnolo- 
gist, 

Finally  shall  come  the  poet  worthy  that 
name, 

The  true  son  of  God  shall  come  singing  his 
songs. 

Then  not  your  deeds  only  O  voyagers,  O 
scientists  and  inventors,  shall  be  justified, 

All  these  hearts  as  of  fretted  children  shall 
be  sooth'd, 

All  affection  shall  be  fully  responded  to, 
the  secret  shall  be  told, 

All  these  separations  and  gaps  shall  be  taken 
up  and  hook'd  and  link'd  together, 

The  whole  earth,  this  cold,  impassive,  voice- 
less earth,  shall  be  completely  justi- 
fied, ,10 

Trinitas  divine  shall  be  gloriously  accom- 
plish'd and  compacted  by  the  true  son  of 
God,  the  poet, 

(He  shall  indeed  pass  the  straits  and  con- 
quer the  mountains, 

He  shall  double  the  cape  of  Good  Hope  to 
some  purpose,) 

Nature  and  Man  shall  be  disjoin'd  and  dif- 
fused no  more, 

The  true  son  of  God  shall  absolutely  fuse 
them. 


Year  at  whose  wide-flung  door  I  sing  ! 

Year  of  the  purpose  accomplish'd! 

Year  of  the  marriage  of  continents,  climates 

and  oceans ! 
(No  mere  doge  of  Venice  now  wedding  the 

Adriatic,) 
I  see  O  year  in  you  the  vast  terraqueous 

globe  given  and  giving  all,  120 

Europe  to  Asia,  Africa  join'd,  and  they  to 

the  New  World, 
The  lands,  geographies,  dancing  before  you, 

holding  a  festival  garland, 
As  brides  and  bridegrooms  hand  in  hand. 

Passage  to  India  ! 

Cooling  airs  from  Caucasus  far,  soothing 

cradle  of  man, 
The  river  Euphrates  flowing,  the  past  lit  up 


Lo  soul,  the  retrospect  brought  forward, 
The    old,    most    populous,    wealthiest    of 

earth's  lands, 
The  streams  of  the  Indus  and  the  Ganges 

and  their  many  affluents, 
(I  my  shores  of  America  walking  to-day 

behold,  resuming  all,)  130 

The    tale    of    Alexander   on   his   warlike 

marches  suddenly  dying, 
On  one  side  China  and  on  the  other  side 

Persia  and  Arabia, 
To  the  south  the  great  seas  and  the  bay  of 

Bengal, 
The  flowing  literatures,  tremendous  epics, 

religions,  castes, 
Old  occult  Brahma  interminably  far  back, 

the  tender  and  junior  Buddha, 
Central  and  southern  empires  and  all  their 

belongings,  possessors, 
The  wars  of  Tamerlane,  the  reign  of  Au- 

rungzebe, 
The   traders,   rulers,   explorers,  Moslems, 

Venetians,  Byzantium,  the  Arabs,  Portu- 
guese, 
The  first  travelers  famous  yet,  Marco  Polo, 

Batouta  the  Moor, 
Doubts   to   be    solv'd,  the   map  incognita, 

blanks  to  be  fill'd,  I4o 

The  foot  of  man  unstay'd,  the  hands  never 

at  rest, 

Thyself  O  soul  that  will  not  brook  a  chal- 
lenge. 

The  medieval  navigators  rise  before  me, 

The  world  of  1492,  with  its  awaken'd  enter- 
prise, 

Something  swelling  in  humanity  now  like 
the  sap  of  the  earth  in  spring, 

The  sunset  splendor  of  chivalry  declin- 
ing. 

And  who  art  thou  sad  shade  ? 
Gigantic,  visionary,  thyself  a  visionary, 
With  majestic  limbs   and   pious   beaming 

eyes, 
Spreading  around  with  every  look  of  thine 

a  golden  world,  150 

Enhuing  it  with  gorgeous  hues. 

As  the  chief  histrion 

Down  to  the  footlights  walks  in  some  great 
scena, 

Dominating  the  rest  I  see  the  Admiral  him- 
self, 

(History's  type  of  courage,  action,  faith,) 


594 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Behold   him   sail  from  Palos  leading  his 

little  fleet, 
His   voyage   behold,  his  return,  his  great 

fame, 
His  misfortunes,  calumniators,  behold  him 

a  prisoner,  chain'd, 
Behold  his  dejection,  poverty,  death. 

(Curious  in  time  I  stand,  noting  the  efforts 
of  heroes,  160 

Is  the  deferment  long  ?  bitter  the  slander, 
poverty,  death  ? 

Lies  the  seed  unreck'd  for  centuries  in  the 
ground  ?  lo,  to  God's  due  occasion, 

Uprising  in  the  night,  it  sprouts,  blooms, 

And  fills  the  earth  with  use  and  beauty.) 


Passage  indeed  O  soul  to  primal  thought, 
Not  lauds  and  seas  alone,  thy  own  clear 

freshness, 

The  young  maturity  of  brood  and  bloom, 
To  realms  of  budding  bibles. 

O  soul,  repressless,  I  with  thee  and  thou 

with  me, 

Thy  circumnavigation  of  the  world  begin,  170 
Of  man,  the  voyage  of  his  mind's  return, 
To  reason's  early  paradise, 
Back,  back  to  wisdom's  birth,  to  innocent 

intuitions, 
Again  with  fair  creation. 


O  we  can  wait  no  longer, 

We  too  take  ship  O  soul, 

Joyous  we  too  launch  out  on  trackless 
seas, 

Fearless  for  unknown  shores  on  waves  of 
ecstasy  to  sail, 

Amid  the  wafting  winds  (thou  pressing  me 
to  thee,  I  thee  to  me,  O  soul), 

Caroling  free,  singing  our  song  of  God,   180 

Chanting  our  chant  of  pleasant  explora- 
tion. 

With  laugh  and  many  a  kiss 

(Let  others  deprecate,  let  others  weep  for 

sin,  remorse,  humiliation), 
O  soul  thou  pleasest  me,  I  thee. 

Ah  more   than  any  priest  O  soul  we  too 

believe  in  God, 
But  with  the  mystery  of  God  we  dare  not 

dally. 


0  soul  thou  pleasest  me,  I  thee, 

Sailing  these  seas  or  on  the  hills,  or  waking 
in  the  night,  , 

Thoughts,  silent  thoughts,  of  Time  and 
Space  and  Death,  like  waters  flowing, 

Bear  me  indeed  as  through  the  regions  in- 
finite, I9<. 

Whose  air  I  breathe,  whose  ripples  hear, 
lave  me  all  over, 

Bathe  me  O  God  in  thee,  mounting  to  thee, 

1  and  my  soul  to  range  in  range  of  thee. 

0  Thou  transcendent, 
Nameless,  the  fibre  and  the  breath, 
Light  of  the  light,  shedding  forth  universes, 

thou  centre  of  them, 

Thou  mightier  centre  of  the  true,  the  good, 
the  loving, 

Thou  moral,  spiritual  fountain  —  affection's 
source  —  thou  reservoir, 

(O  pensive  soul  of  me  —  O  thirst  unsatis- 
fied —  waitest  not  there  ? 

Waitest  not  haply  for  us  somewhere  there 
the  Comrade  perfect  ?)  200 

Thou  pulse  —  thou  motive  of  the  stars, 
suns,  systems, 

That,  circling,  move  in  order,  safe,  harmo- 
nious, 

Athwart  the  shapeless  vastnesses  of  space, 

How  should  1  think,  how  breathe  a  single 
breath,  how  speak,  if,  out  of  myself, 

1  could  not  launch,  to  those,  superior  uni- 
-     verses  ? 

Swiftly  I  shrivel  at  the  thought  of  God, 
At    Nature   and    its  wonders,   Time   and 

Space  and  Death, 
But   that   I,  turning,  call  to  thee  O  soul, 

thou  actual  Me, 

And  lo,  thou  gently  masterest  the  orbs, 
Thou  matest  Time,  smilest  content  at  Death, 
And  fillest,  swellest  full  the  vastnesses  of 

Space.  an 

Greater  than  stars  or  suns, 

Bounding  O  soul  thou  journeyest  forth ; 

What  love  than  thine  and  ours  could  wider 

amplify  ? 
What  aspirations,  wishes,  outvie  thine  and 

ours  O  soul  ? 
What  dreams  of  the  ideal  ?  what  plans  of 

purity,  perfection,  strength  ? 
What  cheerful  willingness  for  others'  sake 

to  give  up  all  ? 
For  others'  sake  to  suffer  all  ? 


WALT   WHITMAN 


595 


Reckoning   ahead  O  soul,  when  thou,  the 

time  achiev'd, 
The  seas  all  cross'd,  weather'd  the  capes, 

the  voyage  done,  220 

Surrounded,  copest,  frontest  God,  yieldest, 

the  aim  attain'd, 
As  fill'd  with  friendship,  love  complete,  the 

Elder  Brother  found, 
The    Younger    melts    in   fondness   in   his 

arms. 


Passage  to  more  than  India  ! 

Are  thy  wings  plumed  indeed  for  such  far 

flights  ? 
O  soul,  voyagest   thou  indeed  on  voyages 

like  those  ? 

Disportest  thou  on  waters  such  as  those  ? 
Soundest  below  the  Sanscrit  and  the  Vedas  ? 
Then  have  thy  bent  unleash'd. 

Passage  to  you,  your  shores,  ye  aged  fierce 
enigmas  !  230 

Passage  to  you,  to  mastership  of  you,  ye 
strangling  problems  ! 

You,  strew'd  with  the  wrecks  of  skeletons, 
that,  living,  never  reach'd  you. 

Passage  to  more  than  India  ! 

O  secret  of  the  earth  and  sky  ! 

Of  you  O  waters  of  the  sea  !   O  winding 

creeks  and  rivers  ! 
Of  you  O  woods  and  fields  !  of  you  strong 

mountains  of  my  land  ! 
Of  you  O  prairies  !  of  you  gray  rocks  ! 
O   morning   red  !    O   clouds  !   O  ram  and 

snows  ! 
O  day  and  night,  passage  to  you  ! 

O  sun  and  moon  and  all  you  stars  !  Sirius 
and  Jupiter !  240 

Passage  to  you ! 

Passage,  immediate  passage  !  the  blood 
burns  in  my  veins  ! 

Away  O  soul !  hoist  instantly  the  an- 
chor ! 

Cut  the  hawsers  —  haul  out  —  shake  out 
every  sail ! 

Have  we  not  stood  here  like  trees  in  the 
ground  long  enough  ? 

Have  we  not  grovel'd  here  long  enough, 
eating  and  drinking  like  mere  brutes  ? 

Have  we  not  darken'd  and  dazed  ourselves 
with  books  long  enough  ? 


Sail  forth  —  steer  for  the  deep  waters  only, 
Reckless   O   soul,  exploring,  I  with  thee, 

and  thou  with  me, 
For  we  are  bound  where  mariner  has  not 

yet  dared  to  go,  250 

And  we  will  risk  the  ship,  ourselves  and  all. 

O  my  brave  soul ! 

O  farther  farther  sail  ! 

O  daring  joy,  but  safe  !  are  they  not  all  the 

seas  of  God  ? 
O  farther,  farther,  farther  sail ! 

1871. 


DAREST  THOU  NOW  O  SOUL 

DAREST  thou  now  O  soul, 

Walk  out   with  me    toward  the  unknown 

region, 
Where  neither  ground  is  for  the  feet  nor 

any  path  to  follow  ? 

No  map  there,  nor  guide, 

Nor  voice   sounding,   nor  touch  of  human 

hand, 
Nor  face  with  blooming  flesh,  nor  lips,  nor 

eyes,  are  in  that  land. 

I  know  it  not  0  soul, 
Nor  dost  thou,  all  is  a  blank  before  us, 
All  waits  undream'd  of  in  that  region,  that 
inaccessible  land. 

Till  when  the  ties  loosen, 
All  but  the  ties  eternal,  Time  and  Space, 
Nor  darkness,  gravitation,  sense,  nor  any 
bounds  bounding  us. 

Then  we  burst  forth,  we  float, 

In  Time  and  Space    O  soul,  prepared  for 

them, 
Equal,  equipt  at   last  (O  joy  !    O  fruit  of 

all !)  them  to  fulfil  O  soul. 

1871. 


THE  LAST  INVOCATION 

AT  the  last,  tenderly, 

From  the  walls  of  the  powerful  fortress'd 

house, 
From  the  clasp  of  the  knitted  locks,  from 

the  keep  of  the  well-closed  doors, 
Let  me  be  wafted. 


596 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Let  me  glide  noiselessly  forth; 

With  the  key  of  softness  unlock  the  locks 

—  with  a  whisper, 
Set  ope  the  doors  O  soul. 

Tenderly  —  be  not  impatient, 
(Strong  is  your  hold  O  mortal  flesh, 
Strong  is  your  hold  O  love.) 


1871. 


JOY,   SHIPMATE,  JOY! 

JOY,  shipmate,  joy  ! 
(Pleas 'd  to  my  soul  at  death  I  cry,) 
Our  life  is  closed,  our  life  begins, 
The  long,  long  anchorage  we  leave, 
The  ship  is  clear  at  last,  she  leaps  ! 
She  swiftly  courses  from  the  shore, 
Joy,  shipmate,  joy. 


O  STAR  OF  FRANCE1 

1870-71 

O  STAR  of  France, 

The  brightness  of  thy  hope  and  strength 

and  fame, 
Like  some  proud  ship  that  led  the  fleet  so 

long, 
Beseems   to-day   a    wreck   driven  by  the 

gale,  a  mastless  hulk, 
And   'mid    its     teeming     madden'd   half- 

drown'd  crowds, 
Nor  helm  nor  helmsman. 

Dim  smitten  star, 

Orb  not  of  France  alone,  pale  symbol  of  my 
soul,  its  dearest  hopes, 

The  struggle  and  the  daring,  rage  divine 
for  liberty, 

Of  aspirations  toward  the  far  ideal,  enthu- 
siast's dreams  of  brotherhood,  10 

Of  terror  to  the  tyrant  and  the  priest. 

Star  crucified  —  by  traitors  sold, 

Star  panting  o'er  a  land  of  death,  heroic 

land, 
Strange,  passionate,  mocking,  frivolous  land. 

Miserable  !  yet  for  thy  errors,  vanities, 
sins,  I  will  not  now  rebuke  thee, 

1  Compare  Whitman's  Specimen  Days,  April  18,  1881. 
Complete  Prose  Works,  p.  174. 


Thy  unexampled   woes    and   pangs    have 

quell'd  them  all, 
And  left  thee  sacred. 

In  that  amid   thy  many    faults   thou  ever 

aimedst  highly, 
In  that  thou  wouldst  not  really  sell  thyself 

however  great  the  price, 
In    that    thou    surely   wakedst     weeping 

from  thy  drugg'd  sleep,  20 

In   that    alone     among   thy   sisters   thou, 

giantess,  didst  rend  the  ones  that  shamed 

thee, 
In  that  thou  couldst  not,  wouldst  not,  wear 

the  usual  chains, 
This  cross,  thy  livid  face,  thy  pierced  hands 

and  feet, 
The  spear  thrust  in  thy  side. 

O  star !  O  ship  of  France,  beat  back  and 

baffled  long  ! 
Bear  up  O  smitten  orb  !     O  ship  continue 

on! 

Sure  as  the  ship  of  all,  the  Earth  itself, 
Product    of    deathly    fire    and    turbulent 

chaos, 
Forth   from    its    spasms   of   fury   and   its 

poisons, 

Issuing  at  last  in  perfect  power  and  beauty, 
Onward    beneath    the    sun    following    its 

course,  31 

So  thee  O  ship  of  France  ! 

Finish'd  the  days,  the  clouds  dispel'd, 

The  travail  o'er,  the   long-sought  extrica- 
tion, 

When  lo  !  reborn,  high  o'er  the  European 
world, 

(In  gladness  answering  thence,  as  face  afar 
to  face,  reflecting  ours  Columbia,) 

Again  thy  star  O  France,  fair  lustrous  star, 

In   heavenly   peace,  clearer,   more  bright 
than  ever, 

Shall  beam  immortal. 

1871.  (1872.) 


THE   MYSTIC   TRUMPETER 


HARK,  some  wild  trumpeter,  some  strange 

musician, 
Hovering  unseen  in  air,  vibrates  capricious 

tunes  to-night. 


WALT  WHITMAN 


591 


I   hear  thee  trumpeter,  listening  alert   I 

catch  thy  notes, 
Now  pouring,  whirling  like  a  tempest  round 

me, 
Now  low,  subdued,  now  in  the  distance  lost. 


Come  nearer  bodiless  one,  haply  in  thee 

resounds 

Some  dead  composer,  haply  thy  pensive  life 
Was  fill'd  with  aspirations  high,  unform'd 

ideals, 

Waves,  oceans  musical,  chaotically  surging, 
That  now  ecstatic  ghost,  close  to  me  bendr 

ing,  thy  cornet  echoing,  pealing,  10 

Gives  out  to  no  one's  ears  but  mine,  but 

freely  gives  to  mine, 
That  I  may  thee  translate. 


Blow  trumpeter  free  and  clear,  I  follow 

thee, 

While  at  thy  liquid  prelude,  glad,  serene, 
The  fretting  world,  the  streets,  the  noisy 

hours  of  day  withdraw, 
A  holy  calm  descends  like  dew  upon  me, 
I  walk  in  cool  refreshing  night  the  walks  of 

Paradise, 

I  scent  the  grass,  the  moist  air  and  the  roses ; 
Thy  song  expands  my  numb'd  unbonded 

spirit,  thou  freest,  launchest  me, 
Floating  and  basking  upon  heaven's  lake.  20 


Blow  again  trumpeter  !  and  for  my  sensu- 
ous eyes, 

Bring  the  old  pageants,  show  the  feudal 
world. 

What  charm  thy  music  works  !  thou  makest 

pass  before  me, 
Ladies  and  cavaliers  long  dead,  barons  are 

in  their  castle  halls,  the  troubadours  are 

singing, 
Arm'd  knights  go  forth  to  redress  wrongs, 

some  in  quest  of  the  holy  Graal ; 
I  see  the  tournament,  I  see  the  contestants 

incased  in  heavy  armor  seated  on  stately 

champing  horses, 
I  hear  the  shouts,  the  sounds  of  blows  and 

smiting  steel; 
I  see  the  Crusaders'  tumultuous  armies  — 

hark,  how  the  cymbals  clang, 
Lo,    where   the   monks   walk   in  advance, 

bearing  the  cross  on  high. 


Blow  again  trumpeter  !  and  for  thy  theme, 

Take  now  the  enclosing  theme  of  all,  the 

solvent  and  the  setting,  3i 

Love,  that  is  pulse  of  all,  the  sustenance 

and  the  paug, 

The  heart  of  man  and  woman  all  for  love, 
No  other  theme  but  love  —  knitting,  enclos- 
ing, all-diffusing  love. 

0  how    the    immortal    phantoms    crowd 
around  me  ! 

1  see  the  vast   alembic   ever   working,  I 
see  and  know  the  flames  that  heat  the 
world, 

The  glow,  the  blush,  the  beating  hearts  of 

lovers, 
So  blissful  happy  some,  and  some  so  silent, 

dark,  and  nigh  to  death; 
Love,  that  is  all  the  earth  to  lovers  —  love, 

that  mocks  time  and  space, 
Love,  that  is  day  and  night  —  love,  that  is 

sun  and  moon  and  stars,  40 

Love,  that  is  crimson,  sumptuous,  sick  with 

perfume, 
No  other  words  but  words  of  love,  no  other 

thought  but  love. 


Blow    again     trumpeter  —  conjure     war's 
alarums. 

Swift  to  thy  spell  a  shuddering  hum  like 

distant  thunder  rolls, 
Lo,  where  the  arm'd  men  hasten  —  lo,  'mid 

the  clouds  of  dust  the  glint  of  bayonets, 
I  see  the  grime-faced  cannoneers,  I  mark  the 

rosy  flash  amid  the  smoke,  I  hear  the 

cracking  of  the  guns ; 
Nor  war  alone  —  thy  fearful  music-song, 

wild  player,  brings  every  sight  of  fear, 
The   deeds   of    ruthless   brigands,   rapine, 

murder  —  I  hear  the  cries  for  help  ! 
I  see  ships  foundering  at  sea,  I  behold  on 

deck  and  below  deck  the  terrible  tableaus. 


O   trumpeter,  methinks  I  am  myself  the 

installment  thou  playest,  50 

Thou  melt'st  my   heart,  my  brain  —  thou 

movest,  drawest,  changest  them  at  will; 
And  now  thy  sullen  notes  send  darkness 

through  me, 
Thou  takest  away  all  cheering  light,  all 

hope, 


598 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


I  see  the  enslaved,  the  overthrown,  the  hurt, 
the  opprest  of  the  whole  earth, 

I  feel  the  measureless  shame  and  humilia- 
tion of  my  race,  it  becomes  all  mine, 

Mine  too  the  revenges  of  humanity,  the 
wrongs  of  ages,  baffled  feuds  and  hatreds, 

Utter  defeat  upon  me  weighs  —  all  lost  — 
the  foe  victorious, 

(Yet  'mid  the  ruins  Pride  colossal  stands 
unshaken  to  the  last, 

Endurance,  resolution  to  the  last.) 


Now  trumpeter  for  thy  close,  60 

Vouchsafe  a  higher  strain  than  any  yet, 
Sing  to  my  soul,  renew  its  languishing  faith 

and  hope, 
Rouse  up  my  slow  belief,  give   me    some 

vision  of  the  future, 
Give  me  for  once  its  prophecy  and  joy. 

O  glad,  exulting,  culminating  song  ! 

A  vigor  more  than  earth's  is  in  thy  notes, 

Marches  of  victory  —  man  disenthrall  — 

the  conqueror  at  last, 
Hymns  to  the  universal  God  from  universal 

man  —  all  joy  ! 
A  reborn  race  appears  —  a  perfect  world, 

all  joy ! 
Women  and  men  in  wisdom  innocence  and 

health  —  all  joy  !  70 

Riotous  laughing  bacchanals  fill'd  with  joy  ! 
War,   sorrow,   suffering   gone  —  the   rank 

earth  purged  —  nothing  but  joy  left ! 
The  ocean  fill'd  with  joy  —  the  atmosphere 

all  joy  ! 
Joy  !  joy  !  in  freedom,  worship,  love !  joy 

in  the  ecstasy  of  life  ! 
Enough  to  merely  be  !  enough  to  breathe  ! 
Joy  !  joy  !  all  over  joy  ! 

1872. 


VIRGINIA  — THE  WEST 

THE  noble  sire  fallen  on  evil  days, 

I  saw  with  hand  uplifted,  menacing,  bran- 
dishing 

(Memories  of  old  in  abeyance,  love  and 
faith  in  abeyance), 

The  insane  knife  toward  the  Mother  of  All. 

The  noble  son  on  sinewy  feet  advancing, 
I  saw,  out  of  the  land  of  prairies,  land  of 
Ohio's  waters  and  of  Indiana, 


To  the  rescue  the  stalwart  giant  hurry  his 

plenteous  offspring, 
Drest  in  blue,  bearing  their  trusty  rifles  on 

their  shoulders. 

Then  the  Mother  of  All  with  calm  voice 
speaking, 

As  to  you  Rebellious  (I  seemed  to  hear  her 
say),  why  strive  against  me,  and  why  seek 
my  life  ? 

When  you  yourself  forever  provide  to  de- 
fend me  ? 

For  you  provided  me  Washington  —  and 
now  these  also. 

1872. 


THOU  MOTHER  WITH  THY 
EQUAL  BROOD 1 


THOU  Mother  with  thy  equal  brood, 
Thou  varied  chain  of  different  States,  yet 
one  identity  only, 

1  Read  by  Whitman  at  the  Commencement  of  Dart- 
mouth College,  in  1872. 

The  poem  originally  began  with  what  is  now  Section 
2,  and  the  title  as  well  as  the  first  line  was  '  As  a  strong 
bird  on  pinions  free.'  What  is  now  Section  1  was  added 
in  the  1881  edition. 

See  the  original  Preface  of  this  poem,  in  the  Com- 
plete Prose  Works,  pp.  268-272.  One  of  its  chief  ideas 
is  condensed  in  two  paragraphs  near  the  end  :  — 

'  The  Four  Years'  War  is  over  —  and  in  the  peaceful, 
strong,  exciting,  fresh  occasions  of  to-day,  and  of  the 
future,  that  strange,  sad  war  is  hurrying  even  now  to 
be  forgotten.  The  camp,  the  drill,  the  lines  of  sentries, 
the  prisons,  the  hospitals— (ah  !  the  hospitals  !)— all 
have  passed  away  —  all  seem  now  like  a  dream.  A  new 
race,  a  young  and  lusty  generation,  already  sweeps  in 
with  oceanic  currents,  obliterating  the  war,  and  all  its 
scars,  its  mounded  graves,  and  all  its  reminiscences  of 
hatred,  conflict,  death.  So  let  it  be  obliterated.  I  say 
the  life  of  the  present  and  the  future  makes  undeniable 
demands  upon  us  each  and  all,  south,  north,  east,  west. 
To  help  put  the  United  States  (even  if  only  in  imagina- 
tion) hand  in  hand,  in  one  unbroken  circle  in  a  chant 
—  to  rouse  them  to  the  unprecedented  grandeur  of  the 
part  they  are  to  play,  and  are  even  now  playing  —  to 
the  thought  of  their  great  future,  and  the  attitude  con- 
form'd  to  it  —  especially  their  great  esthetic,  moral, 
scientific  future  (of  which  their  vulgar  material  and 
political  present  is  but  as  the  preparatory  tuning  of  in- 
struments by  an  orchestra),  these,  as  hitherto,  are  still, 
for  me,  among  my  hopes,  ambitions. 

'  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  already  publish'd,  is,  in  its  in- 
tentions, the  song  of  a  great  composite  democratic  indi- 
vidual, male  or  female.  And  following  on  and  ampli- 
fying the  same  purpose,  I  suppose  I  have  in  my  mind 
to  run  through  the  chants  of  this  volume  (if  ever  com- 
pleted), the  thread-voice,  more  or  leas  audible,  of  an 
aggregated,  inseparable,  unprecedented,  vast,  compos- 
ite, electric  democratic  nationality.1 

Compare  also  Whitman's  Democratic  Vislax,  Com- 
plete Prose  Works,  pp.  197-250;  "A  Backward  Glanc* 


WALT   WHITMAN 


599 


A  special  song  before  I  go  I  M  sing  o'er  all 

the  rest, 
For  thee,  the  future. 

I  'd  sow  a  seed  for  thee  of  endless  Nation- 
ality, 

I  'd  fashion  thy  ensemble  including  body 
and  soul, 

I  'd  show  away  ahead  thy  real  Union,  and 
how  it  may  be  accomplish'd. 

The  paths  to  the  house  I  seek  to  make, 
But  leave  to  those  to  come  the  house  it- 
self. 

Belief  I  sing,  and  preparation;  10 

As  Life  and  Nature  are  not  great  with  ref- 
erence to  the  present  only, 

But  greater  still  from  what  is  yet  to 
come, 

Out  of  that  formula  for  thee  I  sing. 


As  a  strong  bird  on  pinions  free, 

Joyous,  the   amplest    spaces    heavenward 

cleaving, 
Such   be   the   thought   I'd  think  of   thee 

America, 
Such  be  the  recitative  I  'd  bring  for  thee. 

The  conceits  of  the  poets  of  other  lands  I  'd 

bring  thee  not, 
Nor  the  compliments  that  have  served  their 

turn  so  long, 
Nor  rhyme,  nor  the  classics,  nor  perfume 

of  foreign  court  or  indoor  library;  20 
But  an  odor  I  'd  bring  as  from  forests  of 

pine  in  Maine,  or  breath  of  an  Illinois 

prairie, 
With  open  airs  of  Virginia  or  Georgia  or 

Tennessee,  or   from   Texas   uplands,  or 

Florida's  glades, 
Or  the  Saguenay's   black   stream,  or   the 

wide  blue  spread  of  Huron, 
With  presentment  of  Yellowstone's  scenes, 

or  Yosemite, 
And  murmuring  under,  pervading  all,  I  'd 

bring  the  rustling  sea-sound, 
That  endlessly  sounds  from  the  two  Great 

Seas  of  the  world. 

o'er  Travel'd  Roads; "  and,  especially,  one  of  Whitman's 
early  notes,  in  Notes  and  Fraqmenif,  p.  59 :  — 

'  In  Poems  —  bring  in  the  idea  of  Mother  —  the  idea 
of  the  mother  with  numerous  children  —  all,  great  and 
small,  old  and  young,  equal  in  her  eyes  —  as  the  iden- 
tity of  America.' 


And  for  thy  subtler  sense  subtler  refrains 

dread  Mother, 
Preludes  of  intellect  tallying  these   and 

thee,  mind-formulas  fitted  for  thee,  real 

and  sane  and  large  as  these  and  thee, 
Thou  !  mounting  higher,  diving  deeper  than 

we  knew,  thou  transcendental  Union  ! 
By  thee  fact  to  be  justified,  blended  with 

thought,  30 

Thought   of   man   justified,  blended   with 

God, 

Through  thy  idea,  lo,  the  immortal  reality  ! 
Through  thy  reality,  lo,  the  immortal  idea  ! 


Brain  of  the  New  World,  what  a  task  is 
thine, 

To  formulate  the  Modern  —  out  of  the  peer- 
less grandeur  of  the  modern, 

Out  of  thyself,  comprising  science,  to  recast 
poems,  churches,  art, 

(Recast,  may-be  discard  them,  end  them  — 
may-be  their  work  is  done,  who  knows  ?) 

By  vision,  hand,  conception,  on  the  back- 
ground of  the  mighty  past,  the  dead, 

To  limn  with  absolute  faith  the  mighty  liv- 
ing present. 

And  yet  thou  living  present  brain,  heir  of 

the  dead,  the  Old  World  brain,  4o 

Thou  that  lay  folded  like  an  unborn  babe 

within  its  folds  so  long, 
Thou  carefully  prepared  by  it  so  long  — 

haply  thou  but  unfoldest  it,  only  maturest 

it, 
It  to  eventuate  in  thee  —  the  essence  of  the 

by-gone  time  contain'd  in  thee, 
Its   poems,    churches,    arts,    unwitting    to 

themselves,  destined  with   reference  to 

thee; 
Thou  but  the  apples,  long,  long,  long  a-grow- 

ing, 
The  fruit  of  all  the  Old  ripening  to-day  in 

thee. 


Sail,  sail  thy  best,  ship  of  Democracy, 

Of  value  is  thy  freight,  't  is  not  the  Present 

only, 

The  Past  is  also  stored  in  thee, 
Thou  boldest  not  the  venture  of  thyself 

alone,    not    of    the    Western    continent 

alone,  5o 

Earth's  resume  entire  floats  on  thy  keel  O 

ship,  is  steadied  by  thy  spars, 


6oo 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


With  thee  Time  voyages  in  trust,  the 
antecedent  nations  sink  or  swim  with 
thee, 

With  all  their  ancient  struggles,  martyrs, 
heroes,  epics,  wars,  thou  bear'st  the  other 
continents, 

Theirs,  theirs  as  much  as  thine,  the  desti- 
nation-port triumphant; 

Steer  then  with  good  strong  hand  and  wary 
eye  O  helmsman,  thou  carriest  great 
companions, 

Venerable  priestly  Asia  sails  this  day  with 
thee, 

And  royal  feudal  Europe  sails  with  thee. 


Beautiful  world  of  new  superber  birth  that 

rises  to  my  eyes, 
Like  a  limitless  golden  cloud  filling  the 

western  sky, 
Emblem  of  general  maternity  lifted  above 

all,  60 

Sacred  shape  of  the  bearer  of  daughters 

and  sons, 
Out  of  thy  teeming  womb  thy  giant  babes 

in  ceaseless  procession  issuing, 
Acceding  from  such  gestation,  taking  and 

giving  continual  strength  and  life, 
World  of  the  real  —  world  of  the  twain  in 

one, 
World  of  the  soul,  born  by  the  world  of  the 

real  alone,  led  to  identity,  body,  by  it 

alone, 
Yet  in  beginning  only,  incalculable  masses 

of  composite  precious  materials, 
By  history's  cycles   forwarded,  by   every 

nation,  language,  hither  sent, 
Ready,  collected  here,  a  freer,  vast,  elec- 
tric world,  to  be  constructed  here 
(The  true  New  World,  the  world  of  orbic 

science,  morals,  literatures  to  come), 
Thou    wonder    world   yet   undefined,   un- 

form'd,  neither  do  I  define  thee,  7o 

How  can  I  pierce  the  impenetrable  blank 

of  the  future  ? 
I  feel  thy  ominous  greatness  evil  as  well  as 

good, 
I   watch    thee    advancing,   absorbing    the 

present,  transcending  the  past, 
I  see  thy  light   lighting,  and  thy  shadow 

shadowing,  as  if  the  entire  globe, 
But  I  do  not   undertake   to   define   thee, 

hardly  to  comprehend  thee, 
I  but  thee  name,  thee  prophesy,  as  now, 
I  merely  thee  ejaculate  I 


Thee  in  thy  future, 

Thee  in  thy  only  permanent  life,  career,  thy 
own  unloosen'd  mind,  thy  soaring  spirit, 

Thee  as  another  equally  needed  sun,  radi- 
ant, ablaze,  swift-moving,  fructifying  all, 

Thee  risen  in  potent  cheerfulness  and  joy, 
in  endless  great  hilarity,  81 

Scattering  for  good  the  cloud  that  hung  so 
long,  that  weigh 'd  so  long  upon  the  mind 
of  man, 

The  doubt,  suspicion,  dread,  of  gradual, 
certain  decadence  of  man; 

Thee  in  thy  larger,  saner  brood  of  female, 
male  —  thee  in  thy  athletes,  moral, 
spiritual,  South,  North,  West,  East, 

(To  thy  immortal  breasts,  Mother  of  All, 
thy  every  daughter,  son,  endear 'd  alike, 
forever  equal,) 

Thee  in  thy  own  musicians,  singers,  artists, 
unborn  yet,  but  certain, 

Thee  in  thy  moral  wealth  and  civilization, 
(until  which  thy  proudest  material  civili- 
zation must  remain  in  vain,) 

Thee  in  thy  all-supplying,  all-enclosing 
worship  —  thee  in  no  single  bible,  saviour, 
merely, 

Thy  saviours  countless,  latent  within  thy- 
self, thy  bibles  incessant  within  thyself, 
equal  to  any,  divine  as  any. 

(Thy  soaring  course  thee  formulating,  not 
in  thy  two  great  wars,  nor  in  thy  cen- 
tury's visible  growth,  90 

But  far  more  in  these  leaves  and  chants, 
thy  chants,  great  Mother  !)  1 

Thee  in  an  education  grown  of  thee,  in 
teachers,  studies,  students,  born  of  thee, 

Thee  in  thy  democratic  fetes  en-masse,  thy 
high  original  festivals,  operas,  lecturers, 
preachers, 

Thee  in  thy  ultimata  (the  preparations 
only  now  completed,  the  edifice  on  sure 
foundations  tied), 

Thee  in  thy  pinnacles,  intellect,  thought, 
thy  topmost  rational  joys,  thy  love  and 
godlike  aspiration, 

In  thy  resplendent  coming  literati,  thy  full- 
lung'd  orators,  thy  sacerdotal  bards,  kos- 
mic  savans, 

These  !  these  in  thee  (certain  to  come),  to- 
day I  prophesy. 


Land  tolerating  all,  accepting  all,  not  for 
the  good  alone,  all  good  for  thee, 
1  The  two  lines  in  parenthesis  were  added  in  1881. 


WALT  WHITMAN 


601 


Land  in  the  realms  of  God  to  be  a  realm 

unto  thyself, 
Under  the  rule  of  God  to  be  a  rule  unto 

thyself.  ,  ioo 

(Lo,  where  arise  three  peerless  stars, 
To  be  thy  natal  stars  my  country,  Ensem- 
ble, Evolution,  Freedom, 
5et  in  the  sky  of  Law.) 

Land  of  unprecedented  faith,  God's  faith, 
Thy  soil,  thy  very  subsoil,  all  upheav'd, 
The  general  inner  earth  so  long  so  sedu- 
lously draped  over,  now  hence  for  what 
it  is  boldly  laid  bare, 

Open'd  by  thee  to  heaven's  light  for  benefit 
or  bale. 

N^t  for  success  alone, 

Not  to  fair-sail  unintermitted  always, 

The  storm  shall  dash  thy  face,  the  murk  of 
war  and  worse  than  war  shall  cover  thee 
all  over,  no 

(Wert  capable  of  war,  its  tug  and  trials  ? 
be  capable  of  peace,  its  trials, 

For  the  tug  and  mortal  strain  of  nations 
come  at  last  in  prosperous  peace,  not  war ;) 

In  many  a  smiling  mask  death  shall  ap- 
proach beguiling  thee,  thou  in  disease 
shalt  swelter, 

The  livid  cancer  spread  its  hideous  claws, 
clinging  upon  thy  breasts,  seeking  to 
strike  thee  deep  within, 

Consumption  of  the  worst,  moral  consump- 
tion, shall  rouge  thy  face  with  hectic,1 

But  thou  shalt  face  thy  fortunes,  thy  dis- 
eases, and  surmount  them  all, 

Whatever  they  are  to-day  and  whatever 
through  time  they  may  be, 

They  each  and  all  shall  lift  and  pass  away 
and  cease  from  thee, 

While  thou,  Time's  spirals  rounding,  out 
of  thyself,  thyself  still  extricating,  fusing, 

Equable,  natural,  mystical  Union  thou 
(the  mortal  with  immortal  blent),  120 

Shalt  soar  toward  the  fulfilment  of  the  fu- 
ture, the  spirit  of  the  body  and  the  mind, 

The  soul,  its  destinies. 

The  soul,  its  destinies,  the  real  real, 
(Purport   of   all   these  apparitions  of  the 

real ;) 
In  thee  America,  the  soul,  its  destinies, 

1  Compare  Democratic  Vistas,  pp.  203-208 ;  and  Two 
Rivulets,  1876,  the  prose  section. 


Thou  globe  of  globes  !  thou  wonder  nebu- 
lous ! 

By  many  a  throe  of  heat  and  cold  convuls'd 
(by  these  thyself  solidifying), 

Thou  mental,  moral  orb  —  thou  New,  in- 
deed new,  Spiritual  World  ! 

The    Present   holds   thee   not  —  for    such 
vast  growth  as  thine, 

For  such  unparallel'd  flight  as  thine,  such 
brood  as  thine,  130 

The  FUTURE  only  holds  thee  and  can  hold 
thee. 

1872. 

PRAYER   OF   COLUMBUS2 

A  BATTER'D,  wreck'd  old  man, 

Thrown  on  this  savage  shore,  far,  far  from 

home, 
Pent  by  the  sea  and  dark  rebellious  brows, 

twelve  dreary  months, 
Sore,  stiff  with  many  toils,  sickeu'd  and  nigh 

to  death, 

I  take  my  way  along  the  island's  edge, 
Venting  a  heavy  heart. 

I  am  too  full  of  woe  ! 

Haply  I  may  not  live  another  day; 

I  cannot  rest  O  God,  I  cannot  eat  or  drink 

or  sleep, 
Till  I  put  forth  myself,  my  prayer,  once 

more  to  Thee,  10 

Breathe,  bathe  myself  once  more  in  Thee, 

commune  with  Thee, 
Report  myself  once  more  to  Thee. 


2  It  was  near  the  close  of  his  indomitable  and  pious 
life  —  on  his  last  voyage  when  nearly  70  years  of  age  — 
that  Columbus,  to  save  his  two  remaining  ships  from 
foundering  in  the  Caribbean  Sea  in  a  terrible  storm, 
had  to  run  them  ashore  on  the  Island  of  Jamaica  — 
where,  laid  up  for  a  long  and  miserable  year  — 1503  — 
he  was  taken  very  sick,  had  several  relapses,  his  men 
revolted,  and  death  seem'd  daily  imminent ;  though  he 
was  eventually  rescued,  and  sent  home  to  Spain  to  die, 
unrecognized,  neglected  and  in  want.  .  .  .  It  is  only 
ask'd,  as  preparation  and  atmosphere  for  the  following 
lines,  that  the  bare  authentic  facts  be  recall'd  and  real- 
ized, and  nothing  contributed  by  the  fancy.  See,  the 
Antillean  Island,  with  its  florid  skies  and  rich  foliage 
and  scenery,  the  waves  beating  the  solitary  sands,  and 
the  hulls  of  the  ships  in  the  distance.  See,  the  figure 
of  the  great  Admiral,  walking  the  beach,  as  a  stage,  in 
this  sublimest  tragedy  —  for  what  tragedy,  what  poem, 
so  piteous  and  majestic  as  the  real  scene  ?  —  and  hear 
him  uttering  —  as  his  mystical  and  religious  soul  surely 
utter'd,  the  ideas  following— perhaps,  in  their  equiv- 
alents, the  very  words.  (WHITMAN.) 


602 


CHIEF   AMERICAN    POETS 


Thou  knowest  the  prayers  and  vigils  of  my 

youth, 
Thou  knowest  my  manhood's  solemn  and 

visionary  meditations, 
Thou  knowest  how  before  I  commenced  I 

devoted  all  to  come  to  Thee, 
Thou  knowest  I  have  in  age  ratified  all 

those  vows  and  strictly  kept  them, 
Thou  knowest  I  have  not  once  lost  nor  faith 

nor  ecstasy  in  Thee, 
In  shackles,  prison'd,  in  disgrace,  repining 

not,  20 

Accepting   all   from   Thee,  as  duly   come 

from  Thee. 

All  my  emprises  have  been  fill'd  with  Thee, 

My  speculations,  plans,  begun  and  carried 
on  in  thoughts  of  Thee, 

Sailing  the  deep  or  journeying  the  land  for 
Thee; 

Intentions,  purports,  aspirations  mine,  leav- 
ing results  to  Thee. 

O  I  am  sure  they  really  came  from  Thee, 
The   urge,   the   ardor,   the    unconquerable 

will, 
The  potent,  felt,  interior  command,  stronger 

than  words, 
A  message  from  the  Heavens  whispering 

to  me  even  in  sleep, 
These  sped  me  on.  3o 

By  me  and  these  the  work  so  far  accom- 

plish'd, 
By  me  earth's  elder  cloy'd  and  stifled  lands 

uncloy'd,  unloos'd, 
By  me  the  hemispheres  rounded  and  tied, 

the  unknown  to  the  known. 

The  end  I  know  not,  it  is  all  in  Thee, 

Or  small  or  great  I  know  not  —  haply 
what  broad  fields,  what  lands, 

Haply  the  brutish  measureless  human  un- 
dergrowth I  know, 

Transplanted  there  may  rise  to  stature, 
knowledge  worthy  Thee, 

Haply  the  swords  I  know  may  there  indeed 
be  turn'd  to  reaping-tools, 

Haply  the  lifeless  cross  I  know,  Europe's 
dead  cross,  may  bud  and  blossom  there. 

One  effort  more,  my  altar  this  bleak  sand; 
That  Thou  O  God  my  life  hast  lighted,    4i 
With  ray  of  light,  steady,  ineffable,  vouch- 
safed of  Thee, 


Light   rare   untellable,   lighting   the   very 

light, 

Beyond  all  signs,  descriptions,  languages; 
For  that  O  God,  be  it  my  latest  word,  here 

on  my  knees, 
Old,  poor,  and  paralyzed,  I  thank  Thee. 

My  terminus  near, 

The  clouds  already  closing  in  upon  me, 

The  voyage   balk'd,  the   course   disputed, 

lost, 
I  yield  my  ships  to  Thee.  50 

My  hands,  my  limbs  grow  nerveless, 
My  brain  feels  rack'd,  bewilder'd, 
Let  the  old  timbers  part,  I  will  not  part, 
I  will  cling  fast  to  Thee,  O  God,  though 

the  waves  buffet  me, 
Thee,  Thee  at  least  I  know. 

Is  it  the  prophet's  thought  I  speak,  or  am  I 
raving  ? 

What  do  I  know  of  life  ?  what  of  myself  ? 

I  know  not  even  my  own  work  past  or  pre- 
sent, 

Dim  ever-shifting  guesses  of  it  spread  be- 
fore me, 

Of  newer  better  worlds,  their  mighty 
parturition,  60 

Mocking,  perplexing  me. 

And  these  things  I  see  suddenly,  what 
mean  they  ? 

As  if  some  miracle,  some  hand  divine  un- 
seal'd  my  eyes, 

Shadowy  vast  shapes  smile  through  the  air 
and  sky, 

And  on  the  distant  waves  sail  countless 
ships, 

And  anthems  in  new  tongues  I  hear  salut- 
ing me. 

1874.   (1876.) 


COME,  SAID  MY  SOUL1 

COME,   SAID  MY   SOUL, 

SUCH     VERSES      FOR     MY     BODY     LET      US 

WRITE,    (FOR   WE   ARE   ONE), 
THAT   SHOULD   I   AFTER   DEATH    INVISIBLY 

RETURN, 
OR,  LONG,  LONG  HENCE,  IN  OTHER  SPHERES, 

1  The  Inscription,  signed  with  Whitman's  autograph, 
to  the  1876  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grots,  and  to  all  the 
following  editions  authorized  by  him. 


WALT  WHITMAN 


603 


THERE  TO  SOME  GROUP  OF  MATES  THE 

CHANTS  RESUMING, 
(TALLYING  EARTH'S  SOIL,   TREES,  WINDS, 

TUMULTUOUS  WAVES,) 

EVER  WITH   PLEAS'D  SMILE  i  MAY   KEEP 

ON, 

EVER  AND  EVER  YET  THE  VERSES  OWN- 
ING—  AS,  FIRST,  I  HERE  AND  NOW, 

SIGNING  FOR  SOUL  AND  BODY,  SET  TO 
THEM  MY  NAME, 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

1876. 


WHEN  THE  FULL-GROWN  POET 
CAME 

WHEN  the  full-grown  poet  came, 

Out  spake  pleased  Nature  (the  round  im- 
passive globe,  with  all  its  shows  of  day 
and  night),  saying,  He  is  mine; 

But  out  spake  too  the  Soul  of  man,  proud, 
jealous  and  unreconciled,  Nay,  he  is  mine 
alone ; 

—  Then  the  full-grown  poet  stood  between 
the  two,  and  took  each  by  the  hand; 

And  to-day  and  ever  so  stands,  as  blender, 
uniter,  tightly  holding  hands, 

Which  he  will  never  release  until  he  re- 
conciles the  two, 

And  wholly  and  joyously  blends  them. 

1876. 


TO   THE    MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD 

THOU  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the 
storm, 

Waking  renew'd  on  thy  prodigious  pinions 

(Burst  the  wild  storm  ?  above  it  thou  as- 
cended'st, 

And  rested  on  the  sky,  thy  slave  that 
cradled  thee), 

Now  a  blue  point,  far,  far  in  heaven  float- 
ing* 

As  to  the  light  emerging  here  on  deck  I 
watch  thee 

(Myself  a  speck,  a  point  on  the  world's 
floating  vast). 

Far,  far  at  sea, 

After  the  night's  fierce  drifts  have  strewn 

the  shore  with  wrecks, 
With  reappearing  day  as  now    so   happy 

and  serene, 


The  rosy  and  elastic  dawn,  the  flashing  sun, 
The  limpid  spread  of  air  cerulean, 
Thou  also  reappearest. 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale  (thou  art  all 

wings), 
To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and 

hurricane, 
Thou   ship  of   air  that  never   furl'st   thy 

sails, 
Days,   even   weeks   untired  and    onward, 

through  spaces,  realms  gyrating, 
At  dusk  that  look'st  on  Senegal,  at  morn 

America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and 

thunder-cloud, 
In   them,  in   thy  experiences,  had'st  thou 

my  soul, 
What  joys  !  what  joys  were  thine  ! 

1876. 

THE   OX-TAMER 

IN  a  far-away  northern  county  in  the  placid 

pastoral  region, 
Lives  my  farmer  friend,  the  theme  of  my 

recitative,  a  famous  tamer  of  oxen, 
There  they  bring  him  the  three-year-olds 

and  the  four-year-olds  to  break  them, 
He  will  take  the  wildest  steer  in  the  world 

and  break  him  and  tame  him, 
He  will  go  fearless  without  any  whip  where 

the  young  bullock  chafes  up  and  down 

the  yard, 
The  bullock's  head  tosses  restless  high  in 

the  air  with  raging  eyes, 
Yet  see  you  !  how  soon  his  rage  subsides  — 

how  soon  this  tamer  tames  him; 
See  you  !  on  the  farms  hereabout  a  hun- 
dred oxen  young  and  old,  and  he  is  the 

man  who  has  tamed  them, 
They  all  know  him,  all  are  affectionate  to 

him; 
See  you  !  some  are  such  beautiful  animals, 

so  lofty  looking; 
Some  are  buff-color'd,  some  mottled,  one 

has  a  white  line  running  along  his  back, 

some  are  brindled. 
Some  have  wide  flaring  horns  (a  good  sign) 

—  see  you  !  the  bright  hides, 

See,  the  two  with  stars  on  their  foreheads 

—  see,    the    round    bodies    and     broad 
backs, 

How   straight   and   square   they  stand  on 
their  legs  —  what  fine  sagacious  eyes  ! 


6o4 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


How  they  watch  their  tamer  —  they  wish 

him  near  them  —  how  they  turii  to  look 

after  him  ! 
What  yearning  expression  !  how  uneasy  they 

are  when  he  moves  away  from  them; 
Now  I  marvel  what  it  can  be  he  appears  to 

them  (books,  politics,  poems,  depart  — 

all  else  departs), 
I  confess  I  envy  only  his  fascination  —  my 

silent,  illiterate  friend, 
Whom  a  hundred  oxen  love  there  in  his  life 

on  farms, 
In  the   northern  county  far,  in  the   placid 

pastoral  region. 

1876. 


TO  A  LOCOMOTIVE  IN  WINTER1 

THEE  for  my  recitative, 

Thee  in  the  driving  storm  even  as  now,  the 

snow,  the  winter-day  declining, 
Thee   in   thy  panoply,  thy  measur'd  dual 

throbbing  and  thy  beat  convulsive, 
Thy  black  cylindric  body,  golden  brass  and 

silvery  steel, 

Thy  ponderous  side-bars,  parallel  and  con- 
necting rods,  gyrating,  shuttling  at  thy 

sides, 
Thy  metrical,  now  swelling  pant  and  roar, 

now  tapering  in  the  distance, 
Thy  great   protruding  head-light   fix'd  in 

front, 
Thy   long,    pale,   floating  vapor-pennants, 

tinged  with  delicate  purple, 
The  dense  and  murky  clouds  out-belching 

from  thy  smoke-stack, 
Thy  knitted  frame,  thy  springs  and  valves, 

the  tremulous  twinkle  of  thy  wheels, 
Thy  train  of  cars  behind,  obedient,  merrily 

following, 
Through   gale   or   calm,   now   swift,   now 

slack,  yet  steadily  careering; 
Type  of  the  modern  —  emblem  of  motion 

and  power  —  pulse  of  the  continent, 

1  Contrast  Wordsworth's  attitude  toward  the  rail- 
road and  its  invasion  of  natural  scenes !  And  compare 
Whitman's  Specimen  Days,  April  29,  1879  :  — 

'  It  was  a  happy  thought  to  build  the  Hudson  River 
railroad  right  along  the  shore.  ...  I  see,  hear,  the 
locomotives  and  cars,  rumbling,  roaring,  flaming,  smok- 
ing, constantly,  away  off  there,  night  and  day  —  less 
than  a  mile  distant,  and  in  full  view  by  day.  I  like 
both  sight  and  sound.  Express  trains  thunder  and 
lighten  along ;  of  freight  trains,  most  of  them  very 
long,  there  cannot  be  less  than  a  hundred  a  day.  At 
night  far  down  you  see  the  headlight  approaching, 
coming  steadily  on  like  a  meteor.  The  river  at  night 
baa  its  special  character-beauties.'  1876,  vol.  i,  p.  369. 


For  once  come  serve  the  Muse  and  merge 
in  verse,  even  as  here  I  see  thee, 

With  storm  and  buffeting  gusts  of  wind 
and  falling  snow, 

By  day  thy  warning  ringing  bell  to  sound 
its  notes, 

By  night  thy  silent  signal  lamps  to  swing. 

Fierce-throated  beauty  ! 
Roll  through  my  chant  with  all  thy  law- 
less music,  thy  swinging  lamps  at  night, 
Thy    madly -whistled    laughter,    echoing, 

rumbling  like  an  earthquake,  rousing  all, 
Law  of  thyself  complete,  thine  own  track 

firmly  holding, 
(No  sweetness  debonair  of  tearful  harp  or 

glib  piano  thine,) 
Thy  trills  of  shrieks  by   rocks   and  hills 

retUrn'd, 
Launch'd  o'er  the  prairies  wide,  across  the 

lakes, 
To   the   free   skies   unpent  and  glad  and 

strong. 

1876. 

AFTER  AN    INTERVAL 

(NOVEMBER  22, 1875,  MIDNIGHT— SATURN 
AND  MARS  IN  CONJUNCTION) 

AFTER   an  interval,   reading,  here  in  the 

midnight, 
With  the  great  stars  looking  on  —  all  the 

stars  of  Orion  looking, 
And   the   silent   Pleiades  —  and    the    duo 

looking  of  Saturn  and  ruddy  Mars; 
Pondering,  reading  my  own  songs,  after  a 

long  interval  (sorrow  and  death  familiar 

now), 
Ere   closing  the  book,  what  pride  !  what 

joy  !  to  find  them, 
Standing   so   well   the   test  of   death  and 

night ! 
And  the  duo  of  Saturn  and  Mars  ! 

1876.1 

TO    FOREIGN    LANDS 

I  HEARD  that  you  ask'd  for  something  to 

prove  this  puzzle  the  New  World, 
And  to  define  America,  her  athletic  Democ- 
racy, 

Therefore  I  send  you  my  poems  that  you 
behold  in  them  what  you  wanted. 

1881. 
1  1876  only.     Omitted  from  later  editions. 


WALT   WHITMAN 


605 


WHAT   BEST   I    SEE    IN   THEE1 
TO  u.  s.  G.  RETURN'D  FROM  HIS  WORLD'S 

TOUR 

WHAT  best  I  see  in  thee, 

Is  not  that  where  thou  mov'st  down  history's 
great  highways, 

Ever   undimm'd   by   time   shoots   warlike 
victory's  dazzle, 

Or  that  thou  sat'st  where  Washington  sat, 
ruling  the  land  in  peace, 

Or  thou  the  man  whom  feudal  Europe  feted, 
venerable  Asia  swarm'd  upon, 

Who  walk'd  with  kings  with  even  pace  the 
round  world's  promenade; 

But  that  in  foreign  lands,  in  all  thy  walks 
with  kings, 

Those  prairie  sovereigns  of  the  West,  Kan- 
sas, Missouri,  Illinois, 

Ohio's,  Indiana's  millions,  comrades,  farm- 
ers, soldiers,  all  to  the  front, 

Invisibly  with  thee  walking  with  kings  with 
even  pace  the  round  world's  promenade, 

Were  all  so  justified.      . 

1881. 

1  So  General  Grant,  after  circumambiating  the  world, 
has  arrived  home  again,  landed  in  San  Francisco  yester- 
day, froin  the  ship  City  of  Tokio  from  Japan.  What  a 
man  he  is  !  what  a  history  !  what  an  illustration  —  his 
life  —  of  the  capacities  of  that  American  individuality 
common  to  us  all.  Cynical  critics  are  wondering  '  what 
the  people  can  see  in  Grant '  to  make  such  a  hubbub 
about.  They  aver  (and  it  is  no  doubt  true)  that  he  has 
hardly  the  average  of  our  day's  literary  and  scholastic 
culture,  and  absolutely  no  pronounc'd  genius  or  conven- 
tional eminence  of  any  sort.  Correct :  but  he  proves  how 
an  average  western  farmer,  mechanic,  boatman,  carried 
by  tides  of  circumstances,  perhaps  caprices,  into  a  posi- 
tion of  incredible  military  or  civic  responsibilities  (his- 
tory has  presented  none  more  trying,  no  born  monarch's, 
no  mark  more  shining  for  attack  or  envy),  may  steer  his 
way  fitly  and  steadily  through  them  all,  carrying  the 
country  and  himself  with  credit  year  after  year  —  com- 
mand over  a  million  armed  men  —  fight  more  than  fifty 
pitch'd  battles  — rule  for  eight  years  a  land  larger  than 
all  the  kingdoms  of  Europe  combined  —  and  then,  retir- 
ing, quietly  (with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth),  make  the  prome- 
nade of  the  whole  world,  through  its  courts  and  cote- 
ries, and  kings  and  czars  and  mikados,  and  splendidest 
glitters  and  etiquettes,  as  phlegmatically  as  he  ever 
walk'd  the  portico  of  a  Missouri  hotel  after  dinner.  I 
say  all  this  is  what  people  like  —and  I  am  sure  I  like  it. 
Seems  to  me  it  transcends  Plutarch.  How  those  old 
Greeks,  indeed,  would  have  seized  on  him  !  A  mere 
plain  man  —  no  art,  no  poetry  —  only  practical  sense, 
ability  to  do,  or  try  his  best  to  do,  what  devolv'd  upon 
him.  A  common  trader,  money-maker,  tanner,  farmer 
of  Illinois— general  for  the  republic,  in  its  terrific 
struggle  with  itself,  in  the  war  of  attempted  secession  — 
President  following  (a  task  of  peace,  more  difficult  than 
the  war  itself)  —  nothing  heroic,  as  the  authorities  put 
it  —  and  yet  the  greatest  hero.  The  gods,  the  destinies, 
seem  to  have  concentrated  upon  him.  (Specimen  Days, 
September  27,  1879.  Complete  Prose  Works,  pp.  146, 
147.)  See  also  Whitman's  poem:  'On  the  Death  of 
General  Grant.' 


SPIRIT   THAT   FORM'D   THIS 
SCENE 2 

WRITTEN   IN  PLATTE  CANON,    COLORADO 

SPIRIT  that  fonn'd  this  scene, 
These  tumbled  rock-piles  grim  and  red, 
These  reckless  heaven-ambitious  peaks, 
These  gorges,  turbulent-clear  streams,  this 

naked  freshness, 
These  formless  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of 

their  own, 

I  know  thee,  savage  spirit  —  we  have  com- 
muned together, 
Mine  too  such  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of 

their  own; 
Was't  charged  against  my  chants  they  had 

forgotten  art  ? 
To  fuse  within  themselves  its  rules  precise 

and  delicatesse  ? 
The  lyrist's  measur'd  beat,  the  wrought-out 

temple's   grace  —  column    and    polish'd 

arch  forgot  ? 
But  thou  that   revelest  here  —  spirit  that 

form'd  this  scene, 
They  have  remember'd  thee.  1881. 

2  Compare  Whitman's  entry  in  his  journal  during 
his  trip  through  Colorado  :  — 

'  I  have  found  the  law  of  my  own  poems,'  was  the 
unspoken  but  more-and-more  decided  feeling  that  came 
to  me  as  I  pass'd,  hour  after  hour,  amid  all  this  grim 
yet  joyous  elemental  abandon  —  this  plenitude  of  ma- 
terial, entire  absence  of  art,  untrammel'd  play  of  prim- 
itive Nature  —  the  chasm,  the  gorge,  the  crystal  moun- 
tain stream,  repeated  scores,  hundreds  of  miles — the 
broad  handling  and  absolute  uncrampedness  —  the  fan- 
tastic forms,  bathed  in  transparent  browns,  faint  reds 
and  grays,  towering  sometimes  a  thousand,  sometimes 
two  or  three  thousand  feet  high  —  at  their  tops  now 
and  then  huge  masses  pois'd,  and  mixing  with  the 
clouds,  with  only  their  outlines,  hazed  in  misty  lilac, 
visible.  ('  In  Nature's  grandest  shows,'  says  an  old 
Dutch  writer,  an  ecclesiastic,  '  amid  the  ocean's  depth, 
if  so  might  be,  or  countless  worlds  rolling  above  at  night, 
a  man  thinks  of  them,  weighs  all,  not  for  themselves  or 
the  abstract,  but  with  reference  to  his  own  personality, 
and  how  they  may  affect  him  or  color  his  destinies.') 

We  follow  the  stream  of  amber  and  bronze  brawling 
along  its  bed,  with  its  frequent  cascades  and  snow-white 
foam.  Through  the  cafion  we  fly  —  mountains  not  only 
each  side,  but  seemingly,  till  we  get  near,  right  in  front 
of  us  —  every  rood  a  new  view  flashing  and  each  flash 
defying  description  —  on  the  almost  perpendicular  sides, 
clinging  pines,  cedars,  spruces,  crimson  sumach  bushes, 
spots  of  wild  grass  —  but  dominating  all,  those  tower- 
ing rocks,  rocks,  rocks,  bathed  in  delicate  vari-colors, 
with  the  clear  sky  of  autumn  overhead.  New  senses, 
new  joys,  seem  develop'd.  Talk  as  you  like,  a  typical 
Rooky  Mountain  caHon,  or  a  limitless  sea-like  stretch 
of  the  great  Kansas  or  Colorado  plains,  under  favoring 
circumstances,  tallies,  perhaps  expresses,  certainly 
awakes,  those  grandest  and  subtlest  element-emotions 
in  the  human  soul,  that  all  the  marble  temples  and 
sculptures  from  Phidias  to  Thorwaldsen  —  all  paintings, 
poems,  reminiscences,  or  even  music,  probably  nevel 
can.  (Specimen  Dans.  Complete  Prose  Works,  Small, 
Maynard  &  Co.,  p.  136.) 


6o6 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


YOUTH,   DAY,   OLD   AGE   AND 
NIGHT 

YOUTH,  large,  lusty,  loving  —  youth  full  of 
grace,  force,  fascination, 

Do  you  know  that  Old  Age  may  come  after 
you  with  equal  grace,  force,  fascina- 
tion? 

Day  full-blown  and  splendid  —  day  of  the 
immense  sun,  action,  ambition,  laughter, 

The  Night  follows  close  with  millions  of 
suns,  and  sleep  and  restoring  darkness.1 

1881. 


A   CLEAR   MIDNIGHT 

THIS  is  thy  hour  O  Soul,  thy  free  flight 

into  the  wordless, 
Away  from  books,  away  from  art,  the  day 

erased,  the  lesson  done, 
Thee  fully  forth  emerging,  silent,  gazing, 

pondering  the  themes  thou  lovest  best, 
Night,  sleep,  death  and  the  stars. 


WITH    HUSKY-HAUGHTY   LIPS, 
O   SEA!2 

WITH  husky-haughty  lips,  O  sea  ! 

Where  day  and  night  I  wend  thy  surf-beat 
shore, 

Imaging  to  my  sense  thy  varied  strange 
suggestions 

(I  see  and  plainly  list  thy  talk  and  confer- 
ence here), 

Thy  troops  of  white-maned  racers  racing  to 
the  goal, 

Thy  ample,  smiling  face,  dash'd  with  the 
sparkling  dimples  of  the  sun, 

Thy  brooding  scowl  and  murk  —  thy  un- 
loos'd  hurricanes, 


1  Compare  the  passages  in  Whitman's  Prose  Works 
referred  to  in  the  notes  on  pp.  564  and  579. 

J  July  25,  '81.  Far  Rockaway,  L.I.—\  good  day 
here,  on  a  jaunt,  amid  the  sand  and  salt,  a  steady 
breeze  setting  in  from  the  sea,  the  sun  shining,  the 
sedge-odor,  the  noise  of  the  surf,  a  mixture  of  hissing 
and  booming,  the  milk-white  crests  curling  over.  I 
had  a  leisurely  bath  and  naked  ramble  as  of  old,  on  the 
v  arm-gray  shore-sands,  my  companions  off  in  a  boat  in 
deeper  water  —  (I  shouting  to  them  Jupiter's  menaces 
ugainst  the  gods,  from  Pope's  Homer.)  (Specimen  Days. 
Complete  Prose  Works,  Small,  Mayuard  &  Co.,  pp.  176, 
177.) 


Thy  unsubduedness,  caprices,  wilfulness; 
Great  as  thou  art  above  the  rest,  thy  many 

tears  —  a  lack  from  all  eternity  in  thy 

content, 
(Naught  but  the  greatest  struggles,  wrongs, 

defeats,  could  make  thee  greatest  —  no 

less  could  make  thee,) 
Thy   lonely  state  —  something    thou    ever 

seek'st  and  seek'st,  yet  never  gain'st, 
Surely  some  right  withheld  —  some  voice, 

in  huge   monotonous  rage,  of  freedom- 
lover  pent, 
Some  vast  heart,  like  a  planet's,  chain'd  and 

chafing  in  those  breakers, 
By  lengthen'd  swell,  and  spasm,  and  pant- 
ing breath, 
And  rhythmic   rasping  of   thy  sands   and 

waves, 
And    serpent    hiss,    and    savage    peals   of 

laughter, 

And  undertones  of  distant  lion  roar, 
(Sounding,  appealing  to  the  sky's  deaf  ear 

—  but  now,  rapport  for  once, 
A  phantom  in  the  night  thy  confidant  for 

once,) 

The  first  and  last  confession  of  the  globe, 
Outsurging,    muttering    from    thy    soul's 

abysms, 

The  tale  of  cosmic  elemental  passion, 
Thou  tellest  to  a  kindred  soul. 

1884.   (1888.) 


OF    THAT    BLITHE   THROAT   OF 
THINE 

[More  than  eighty-three  degrees  north  —  about  a 
good  day's  steaming  distance  to  the  Pole  by  one  of  our 
fast  oceaners  in  clear  water  —  Greely  the  explorer  heard 
the  song  of  a  single  snow-bird  merrily  sounding  over 
the  desolation.] 

OF  that  blithe  throat  of  thine  from  arctic 

bleak  and  blank, 
I  '11  mind  the  lesson,  solitary  bird  —  let  me 

too  welcome  chilling  drifts, 
E'en    the    profoundest    chill,   as   now  —  a 

torpid  pulse,  a  brain  unnerv'd, 
Old  age  land-lock'd  within  its  winter  baj' 

(cold,  cold,  O  cold  !)  — 
These    snowy   hairs,   my   feeble   arm,  my 

frozen  feet, 
For  them  thy  faith,  thy  rule  I  take,  and 

grave  it  to  the  last; 
Not  summer's  zones  alone  —  not  chants  of 

youth,  or  south's  warm  <-"des  alone, 


WALT   WHITMAN 


607 


But  held  by  sluggish  floes,  pack'd  in  the 

northern  ice,  the  cumulus  of  years, 
These  with  gay  heart  I  also  sing. 


AS     THE     GREEK'S     SIGNAL 
FLAME 

[FOR  WHITTIER'S  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY, 
DECEMBER  17,  1887.] 

As  the  Greek's  signal  flame,  by  antique  re- 
cords told, 
Rose  from  the  hill-top,  like  applause  and 

Welcoming  in  fame  some  special  veteran, 

hero, 
With  rosy  tinge  reddening  the  land  he  'd 

served, 
So  I  aloft  from  Mannahatta's  ship-fringed 

shore, 
Lift  high  a  kindled  brand  for  thee,  Old 

Poet. 

1887.   (1888.) 


TO  THOSE  WHO  'VE  FAIL'D 

To  those  who've  fail'd,  in  aspiration  vast, 
To  unnam'd  soldiers  fallen  in  front  on  the 

lead, 
To  calm,  devoted  engineers  — to  over-ardent 

travelers  —  to  pilots  on  their  ships, 
To  many  a  lofty  song  and  picture  without 

recognition  —  I  'd  rear  a  laurel-cover'd 

monument, 
High,  high  above  the  rest  —  To  all  cut  off 

before  their  time, 

Possess'd  by  some  strange  spirit  of  fire, 
Quench'd  by  an  early  death. 

1888. 


A   CAROL   CLOSING   SIXTY- 
NINE 

A  CAROL  closing  sixty-nine  —  a  resume  — 

a  repetition, 
My  lines  in  joy  and  hope  continuing  on  the 


Of  ye,   O   God,    Life,   Nature,  Freedom, 

Poetry; 
Of  you,  my  Land  —  your  rivers,  prairies, 

States  —  you,  mottled  Flag  I  love, 


Your  aggregate  retain'd  entire  —  O  north, 

south,  east  and  west,  your  items  all; 
Of  me  myself  —  the  jocund  heart  yet  beat- 


The  body  wreck'd,  old,  poor  and  paralyzed 
—  the  strange  inertia  falling  pall-like 
round  me, 

The  burning  fires  down  in  my  sluggish 
blood  not  yet  extinct, 

The  undiminish'd  faith  —  the  groups  of  lov- 
ing friends.1 


THE    FIRST   DANDELION 

SIMPLE  and  fresh  and  fair  from  winter's 
close  emerging, 

As  if  no  artifice  of  fashion,  business,  poli- 
tics, had  ever  been, 

Forth  from  its  sunny  nook  of  shelter'd 
grass  —  innocent,  golden,  calm  as  the 
dawn, 

The  spring's  first  dandelion  shows  its  trust- 
ful face. 

1888. 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE    RAIN 

AND  who  art  thou  ?  said  I  to  the  soft-fall- 
ing shower, 

Which,  strange  to  tell,  gave  me  an  answer, 
as  here  translated: 

I  am  the  Poem  of  Earth,  said  the  voice  of 
the  rain, 

Eternal  I  rise  impalpable  out  of  the  land 
and  the  bottomless  sea, 

Upward  to  heaven,  whence,  vaguely  form'd, 
altogether  changed,  and  yet  the  same, 

1  Compare,  in  Complete  Prose  Works,  p.  190,  the 
letter  of  May  31,  1882 :  '  From  to-day  I  enter  upon  my 
C4th  year.  The  paralysis  that  first  affected  me  near!' 
tea  years  ago,  has  since  remain'd,  with  varying  court 
—  seems  to  have  settled  quietly  down,  and  will  pfl 
bably  continue.  I  easily  tire,  am  very  clumsy,  canno 
walk  far;  but  my  spirits  are  first-rate.  I  go  around  a\ 
public  almost  every  day  —  now  and  then  take  long  trips, 
by  railroad  or  boat,  hundreds  of  miles  — live  largely  in 
the  open  air  — am  sunburnt  and  stout  (weigh  190),— 
keep  up  my  activity  and  interest  in  life,  people,  pro- 
gress, and  the  questions  of  the  day.  About  two  thirds  of 
the  time  I  am  quite  comfortable.  What  mentality  I 
ever  had  remains  entirely  unaffected ;  though  physically 
I  am  a  half-paralytic,  and  likely  to  be  so,  long  as  I  live. 
But  the  principal  object  of  my  life  seems  to  have  been 
aecomplish'd  —  I  have  the  most  devoted  and  ardent  of 
friends,  and  affectionate  relatives  —  and  of  enemies  I 
really  make  no  account.' 


6o8 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


I  descend  to  lave  the  drouths,  atomies,  dust- 
layers  of  the  globe, 

And  all  that  in  them  without  me  were  seeds 
only,  latent,  unborn; 

And  forever,  by  day  and  night,  I  give  back 
life  to  my  own  origin,  and  make  pure  and 
beautify  it; 

(For  song,  issuing  from  its  birthplace,  after 
fulfilment,  wandering, 

Reck'd  or  unreck'd,  duly  with  love  returns.) 

1888. 


A   PRAIRIE    SUNSET 

SHOT   gold,    maroon  and  violet,   dazzling 

silver,  emerald,  fawn, 
The  earth's  whole  amplitude  and  Nature's 

multiform  power  consign'd  for  once  to 

colors; 
The   light,    the   general   air  possess'd    by 

them  —  colors  till  now  unknown, 
No  limit,  confine  —  not  the   Western  sky 

alone  —  the      high      meridian  —  North, 

South,  all, 
Pure   luminous    color    fighting   the   silent 

shadows  to  the  last. 

1888. 


THANKS  IN  OLD  AGE 

THANKS  in  old  age  —  thanks  ere  I  go, 

For  health,  the  midday  sun,  the  impalpable 
air  —  for  life,  mere  life, 

For  precious  ever-lingering  memories,  (of 
you  my  mother  dear  —  you,  father  — 
you,  brothers,  sisters,  friends,) 

For  all  my  days  —  not  those  of  peace  alone 
—  the  days  of  war  the  same, 

For  gentle  words,  caresses,  gifts  from  for- 
eign lands, 

For  shelter,  wine  and  meat  —  for  sweet  ap- 
preciation, 

(You  distant,  dim  unknown  — or  young  or 
old  —  countless,  unspecified,  readers  be- 
lov'd, 

We  never  met,  and  ne'er  shall  meet  —  and 
yet  our  souls  embrace,  long,  close  and 
long;) 

For  beings,  groups,  love,  deeds,  words, 
books  —  for  colors,  forms, 

For  all  the  brave  strong  men  —  devoted, 
hardy  men  —  who  've  forward  sprung  in 
freedom's  help,  all  years,  all  lands, 


For  braver,  stronger,  more  devoted  men  — 

(a  special  laurel  ere  I  go,  to  life's  war's 

chosen  ones, 
The  cannoneers  of  song  and  thought  —  the 

great  artillerists  —  the  foremost  leaders, 

captains  of  the  soul:) 
As  soldier  from  an  ended  war  return'd  — 

As  traveler  out  of  myriads,  to  the  long 

procession  retrospective, 
Thanks  —  joyful     thanks  !  —  a     soldier's, 

traveler's  thanks. 


MY  ;iST  YEAR 

AFTER  surmounting  three-score  and  ten, 

With  all  their  chances,  changes,  losses,  sor- 
rows, 

My  parents'  deaths,  the  vagaries  of  my 
life,  the  many  tearing  passions  of  me, 
the  war  of  '63  and  '4, 

As  some  old  broken  soldier,  after  a  long, 
hot,  wearying  march,  or  haply  after 
battle, 

To-day  at  twilight,  hobbling,  answering 
company  roll-call,  Here,  with  vital  voice, 

Reporting  yet,  saluting  yet  the  Officer  over 


OLD  AGE'S   SHIP  &  CRAFTY 
DEATH'S 

FROM  east  and  west  across  the  horizon's 
edge, 

Two  mighty  masterful  vessels  sailers  steal 
upon  us: 

But  we  '11  make  race  a-time  upon  the  seas 
—  a  battle-contest  yet !  bear  lively 
there  ! 

(Our  joys  of  strife  and  derring-do  to  the 
last !) 

Put  on  the  old  ship  all  her  power  to-day  ! 

Crowd  top-sail,  top-gallant  and  royal  stud- 
ding-sails, 

Out  challenge  and  defiance  —  flags  and 
flaunting  pennants  added, 

As  we  take  to  the  open  —  take  to  the  deep- 
est, freest  waters. 

1891. 

THE  COMMONPLACE 

THE  commonplace  I  sing; 

How  cheap  is  health  !  how  cheap  nobility ! 


WALT  WHITMAN 


609 


Abstinence,  no  falsehood,  no  gluttony,  lust; 
The  open  air  I  sing,  freedom,  toleration 
(Take  here  the  mainest  lesson  —  less  from 

books  —  less  from  the  schools,) 
The  common  day  and  night  —  the  common 

earth  and  waters, 

Your  farm  —  your  work,  trade,  occupation, 
The  democratic  wisdom   underneath,  like 

solid  ground  for  all. 

1891. 

L.   OF   G.'S   PURPORT 

^OT  to  exclude  or  demarcate,  or  pick  out 
evils  from  their  formidable  masses  (even 
to  expose  them), 

But  add,  fuse,  complete,  extend  —  and 
celebrate  the  immortal  and  the  good. 

Haughty  this  song,  its  words  and  scope, 
To  span  vast  realms  of  space  and  time, 
Evolution  —  the  cumulative  —  growths  and 
generations. 

Begun  in  ripen'd  youth  and  steadily  pur- 
sued, 

Wandering,  peering,  dallying  with  all  — 
war,  peace,  day  and  night  absorbing, 

Never  even  for  one  brief  hour  abandoning 
my  task, 

I  end  it  here  in  sickness,  poverty,  and  old 


I  sing  of  life,  yet  mind  me  well  of  death: 
To-day  shadowy  Death  dogs  my  steps,  my 

seated  shape,  and  has  for  years  — 
Draws  sometimes  close  to  me,  as  face  to 

face. 


THE   UNEXPRESS'D 

How  dare  one  say  it  ? 

After  the  cycles,  poems,  singers,  plays, 

Vaunted   Ionia's,  India's  —  Homer,  Shak- 

spere  —  the  long,  long  times'  thick  dotted 

roads,  areas, 
The  shining  clusters  and  the  Milky  Ways 

of  stars  —  Nature's  pulses  reap'd, 
All    retrospective    passions,    heroes,   war, 

love,  adoration, 
All  ages'  plummets  dropt  to  their  utmost 

depths, 
All  human  lives,  throats,  wishes,  brains  — 

all  experiences'  utterance; 


After  the  countless  songs,  or  long  or  short, 

all  tongues,  all  lands, 
Still  something  not  yet  told  in  poesy's  voice 

or  print  —  something  lacking, 
(Who  knows  ?  the  best  yet  unexpress'd  and 

lacking.) 


GOOD-BYE   MY   FANCY! 

GOOD-BYE  my  Fancy  ! 

Farewell  dear  mate,  dear  love  1 

I  'm  going  away,  I  know  not  where, 

Or  to  what  fortune,  or  whether  I  may  ever 

see  you  again, 
So  Good-bye  my  Fancy. 

Now   for   my   last  —  let  me  look  back  a 

moment; 
The  slower  fainter  ticking  of  the  clock  is 

in  me, 
Exit,   nightfall,    and   soon   the  heart-thud 

stopping. 

Long  have  we  lived,  joy'd,  caress'd  to- 
gether; 

Delightful  !  —  now  separation  —  Good-bye 
my  Fancy. 

Yet  let  me  not  be  too  hasty, 

Long  indeed  have  we  lived,  slept,  filter'd, 

become  really  blended  into  one; 
Then  if  we  die  we  die  together  (yes,  we  '11 

remain  one), 
If   we  go  anywhere  we  '11  go  together,  to 

meet  what  happens, 
May-be  we  '11  be  better  off  and  blither,  and 

learn  something, 
May-be  it  is  yourself  now  really  ushering 

me  to  the  true  songs,  (who  knows  ?) 
May-be   it  is  you  the  mortal  knob  really 

undoing,  turning  —  so  now  finally, 
Good-bye  —  and  hail !  my  Fancy. 

1891* 


DEATH'S  VALLEY 

To  accompany  a  picture;  by  request.  '  The  Valley  of 
the  Shadow  of  Death,'  from  the  painting  by  George 
Inness. 

NAY,  do  not  dream,  designer  dark, 
Thou  hast  portray'd  or  hit  thy  theme  en- 
tire; 


6io 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


I,  hoverer  of  late  by  this  dark  valley,  by 
its  confines,  having  glimpses  of  it, 

Here  enter  lists  with  thee,  claiming  my 
right  to  make  a  symbol  too. 

For  I  have  seen  many  wounded  soldiers 
die, 

After  dread  suffering  —  have  seen  their 
lives  pass  off  with  smiles; 

And  I  have  watch'd  the  death-hours  of  the 
old ;  and  seen  the  infant  die ; 

The  rich,  with  all  his  nurses  and  his  doc- 
tors; 

And  then  the  poor,  in  meagreness  and 
poverty; 

And  I  myself  for  long,  O  Death,  have 
breath 'd  my  every  breath 

Amid  the  nearness  and  the  silent  thought 
of  thee. 


And  out  of  these  and  thee, 

I  make  a  scene,  a  song  (not  fear  of  thee, 

Nor  gloom's  ravines,  nor  bleak,  nor  dark 

—  for  I  do  not  fear  thee, 
Nor  celebrate  the  struggle,  or  contortion, 

or  hard-tied  knot), 
Of  the  broad  blessed  light  and  perfect  air, 

with  meadows,  rippling  tides,  and  trees 

and  flowers  and  grass, 
And  the  low  hum  of  living  breeze  —  and 

in  the  midst  God's  beautiful  eternal  right 

hand, 
Thee,  holiest  minister  of   Heaven  —  thee, 

envoy,  usherer,  guide  at  last  of  all, 
Rich,  florid,  loosener  of  the  stricture-knot 

call'd  life, 
Sweet,  peaceful,  welcome  Death. 

1896.  (1897.) 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


[The  poems  Irom  Lanier  are  printed  by  the  kind  permission  of  Mrs.  Sidney  Lanier, 

'    rized  publishers  of  Lanier's  Works.] 


Scribner's  Sons,  the  authori, 

THE  DYING  WORDS  OF  STONE- 
WALL JACKSON 

'  Order  A.  P.  Hill  to  prepare  for  battle.' 

'Tell  Major  Hawks  to  advance  the  Commissary  train.' 

1  Let  us  cross  the  river  and  rest  in  the  shade.' 

THE  stars  of  Night  contain  the  glittering 

Day 

And  rain  his  glory  down  with  sweeter  grace 
Upon  the  dark  World's  grand,  enchanted 

face  — 

All  loth  to  turn  away. 

And  so  the  Day,  about  to  yield  his  breath, 
Utters  the  stars  unto  the  listening  Night, 
To   stand   for   burning   fare-thee-wells  of 
light 

Said  on  the  verge  of  death. 

O  hero-life  that  lit  us  like  the  sun  ! 
O  hero-words  that  glittered  like  the  stars 
And   stood   and  shone   above  the  gloomy 
wars 

When  the  hero-life  was  done  ! 

The  phantoms  of  a  battle  came  to  dwell 
I'  the  fitful  vision  of  his  dying  eyes  — 
Yet  even  in  battle-dreams,  he  sends  sup- 
plies 

To  those  he  loved  so  well. 

His  army  stands  in  battle-line  arrayed: 
His  couriers  fly:  all's  done:  now  God  de- 
cide ! 

—  And  not  till  then  saw  he  the  Other  Side 
Or  would  accept  the  shade. 

Thou  Land  whose  sun  is  gone,  thy  stars 

remain  ! 
Still   shine   the   words   that  miniature  his 

deeds. 
O  thrice-beloved,  where'er  thy  great  heart 

bleeds, 

Solace  hast  thou  for  pain  ! 
1865.  1884. 


and  of  Messrs.  Charlec 


NIGHT   AND   DAY 

THE  innocent,  sweet  Day  is  dead. 
Dark  Night  hath  slain  her  in  her  bed. 
O,  Moors  are  as  fierce  to  kill  as  to  wed ! 

—  Put  out  the  light,  said  he. 

A  sweeter  light  than  ever  rayed 
From  star  of  heaven  or  eye  of  maid 
Has  vanished  in  the  unknown  Shade. 

—  She  's  dead,  she  's  dead,  said  he. 

Now,  in  a  wild,  sad  after-mood 
The  tawny  Night  sits  still  to  brood 
Upon  the  dawn-time  when  he  wooed. 

—  I  would  she  lived,  said  he. 

Star-memories  of  happier  times, 
Of  loving  deeds  and  lovers'  rhymes, 
Throng  forth  in  silvery  pantomimes. 

—  Come  back,  O  Day  !  said  he. 

',66.  1884. 


SONG   FOR    'THE    JACQUERIE'1 

THE   hound   was   cuffed,   the    hound   was 

kicked, 
O'  the   ears  was  cropped,  o'  the  tail  w» 

nicked, 

(All.)        Oo-hoo-o,  howled  the  hound. 
The  hound  into  his  kennel  crept; 
He  rarely  wept,  he  never  slept. 

1  One  of  Lanier's  early  plans  was  for  a  long  poem  i 
heroic  couplets,  with  lyric  interludes,  on  the  insurre 
tion  of  the  French  peasantry  in  the  fourteenth  centurj 
'Although,'  says  Mrs.  Lanier,  '"The  Jacquerie"  re- 
mained  a  fragment  for   thirteen  years,  Mr.  Lanier's 
interest  in  the  subject  never  abated.    Far  on  in  this 
interval  he  is  found  planning  for  leisure  to  work  out  in 
romance  the  story  of  that  savage  insurrection  of  the 
French  peasantry,  which  the  Chronicles  of  Froissart 
had  impressed  upon  his  boyish  imagination.'   '  It  was 
the  first  time,'  says  Lanier  himself,  in  a  letter  of  No- 
vember 15,  1874,  '  that  the  "big  hungers  of  the  People 
appear  in  our  modern   civilization  ;   and  it  is  full  of 
significance.'   Five  chapters  of  the  story,   and  three 
lyrics,  were  completed.   See  the  Poems,  pp.  191-214. 


6l2 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


His  mouth  he  always  open  kept 
Licking  his  bitter  wound, 

The  hound, 
(All.)        U-lu-lo,  howled  the  hound. 

A  star  upon  his  kennel  shone 
That  showed  the  hound  a  meat-bare  bone. 
(All.)         O  hungry  was  the  hound  ! 
The  hound  had  but  a  churlish  wit. 
He  seized  the  bone,  he  crunched,  he  bit. 
'  An  thou  wert  Master,  I  had  slit 
Thy  throat  with  a  huge  wound,' 

Quo'  hound. 
'till.)        O,  angry  was  the  hound. 

The  star  in  castle-window  shone, 
The  Master  lay  abed,  alone. 
(All.)         Oh  ho,  why  not  ?  quo'  hound. 
He  leapt,  he  seized  the  throat,  he  tore 
The  Master,  head  from  neck,  to  floor, 

ind  rolled  the  head  i'  the  kennel  door, 
And  fled  and  salved  his  wound, 
Good  hound ! 

All.)        U-lu-lo,  howled  the  hound. 

1868.  1884. 

MY   SPRINGS 

IN  the  heart  of  the  Hills  of  Life,  I  know 
Two  springs  that  with  unbroken  flow 
Forever  pour  their  lucent  streams 
Into  my  soul's  far  Lake  of  Dreams. 

Not  larger  than  two  eyes,  they  lie 
Beneath  the  many-changing  sky 
And  mirror  all  of  life  and  time, 

—  Serene  and  dainty  pantomime. 

Shot  through  with  lights  of  stars  and  dawns, 
And  shadowed  sweet  by  ferns  and  fawns,  10 

—  Thus  heaven  and  earth  together  vie 
Their  shining  depths  to  sanctify. 

Always  when  the  large  Form  of  Love 
Is  hid  by  storms  that  rage  above, 
I  gaze  in  my  two  springs  and  see 
Love  in  his  very  verity. 

Always  when  Faith  with  stifling  stress 

Of  grief  hath  died  in  bitterness, 

I  gaze  in  my  two  springs  and  see 

A  Faith  that  smiles  immortally.  20 

Always  when  Charity  and  Hope, 
In  darkness  bounden,  feebly  grope, 


I  gaze  in  my  two  springs  and  see 
A  Light  that  sets  my  captives  free. 

Always,  when  Art  on  perverse  wing 
Flies  where  I  cannot  hear  him  sing, 
I  gaze  in  my  two  springs  and  see 
A  charm  thai  brings  him  back  to  me. 

When  Labor  faints,  and  Glory  fails. 
And  coy  Reward  in  sighs  exhales,  30 

I  gaze  in  my  two  springs  and  see 
Attainment  full  and  heavenly. 

O  Love,  O  Wife,  thine  eyes  are  they, 

—  My  springs  from  out  whose  shining  gray 
Issue  the  sweet  celestial  streams 

That  feed  my  life's  bright  Lake  of  Dreams. 

Oval  and  large  and  passion-pure 

And  gray  and  wise  and  honor-sure ; 

Soft  as  a  dying  violet-breath 

Yet  calmly  unafraid  of  death;  4c 

Thronged,    like    two    dove-cotes    of    gray 

doves, 
With  wife's  and  mother's  and  poor-folk's 

loves, 

And  home-loves  and  high  glory-loves 
And  science-loves  and  story-loves, 

And  loves  for  all  that  God  and  man 
In  art  and  nature  make  or  plan, 
And  lady-loves  for  spidery  lace 
And  broideries  and  supple  grace 

And  diamonds  and  the  whole  sweet  round 
Of  littles  that  large  life  compound,  50 

And  loves  for  God  and  God's  bare  truth, 
And  loves  for  Magdalen  and  Ruth, 

Dear  eyes,  dear  eyes  and  rare  complete  — 
Being  heavenly-sweet  and  earthly-sweet, 

—  I  marvel  that  God  made  you  mine, 
For  when  He  frowns,  't  is  then  ye  shine  ! 
1874.  1882. 

THE    SYMPHONY1 

« O  TKADE  !  O  Trade  !   would  thou  wert 

dead! 
The    Time    needs   heart — 't   is  tired    of 

head: 

1  I  have  so  many  fair  dreams  and  hopes  about  music 
in  these  days.  It  is  a  gospel  whereof  the  people  are  in 
great  need.  As  Christ  gathered  up  the  ten  command- 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


613 


We  're  all  for  love,'  the  violins  said.1 

'  Of  what  avail  the  rigorous  tale 

Of  bill  for  coin  and  box  for  bale  ? 

Grant  thee,  O  Trade  !  thine  uttermost  hope : 

Level  red  gold  with  blue  sky-slope, 

And  base  it  deep  as  devils  grope: 

When  all 's  done,  what  hast  thou  won 

Of  the  only  sweet  that 's  under  the  sun  ?  10 

Ay,  canst  thou  buy  a  single  sigh 

Of  true  love's  least,  least  ecstasy  ?  ' 

Then,   with    a     bridegroom's    heart-beats 

trembling, 

All  the  mightier  strings  assembling 
Ranged  them  on  the  violins'  side 
As  when  the  bridegroom  leads  the  bride, 
And,  heart  in  voice,  together  cried: 
'  Yea,  what  avail  the  endless  tale 
Of  gain  by  cunning  and  plus  by  sale  ? 
Look  up  the  land,  look  down  the  land,      20 
The  poor,  the  poor,  the  poor,  they  stand 
Wedged  by  the  pressing  of  Trade's  hand 
Against  an  inward-opening  door 
That  pressure  tightens  evermore: 
They  sigh  a  monstrous  foul-air  sigh 
For  the  outside  leagues  of  liberty, 
Where  Art,  sweet  lark,  transktes  the  sky 
Into  a  heavenly  melody. 
"  Each  day,  all  day  "  (these  poor  folks  say), 
"In    the   same  old   year-long,   drear-long 

way,  3o 

We  weave  in  the  mills  and  heave  in  the 

kilns, 

We  sieve  mine-meshes  under  the  hills, 
And  thieve  much  gold  from  the  Devil's 

bank  tills, 

To  relieve,  O  God,  what  manner  of  ills  ?  — 
The  beasts,  they  hunger,  and  eat,  and  die; 
And  so  do  we,  and  the  world 's  a  sty ; 
Hush,  fellow-swine :  why  nuzzle  and  cry  ? 
Swinehood  hath  no  remedy 
Say  many  men,  and  hasten  by, 
Clamping  the  nose  and  blinking  the  eye.  40 
But  who  said  once,  in  the  lordly  tone, 
Man  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone 
But  all  that  cometh  from  the  Throne  f 
Hath  God  said  so  ? 
But  Trade  saith  No  : 

mentg  and  re-distilled  them  into  the  clear  liquid  of  that 
wondrous  eleventh  —  Love  God  utterly,  and  thy  neigh- 
bor as  thyself  — so  I  think  the  time  will  come  when 
music,  rightly  developed  to  its  now-little-foreseen  gran- 
deur, will  be  found  to  be  a  later  revelation  of  all  gospels 
in  one.  (LAimsB,  in  a  letter  of  March  12,  1875.  The 
Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier,  p.  113.) 

1  Music  ...  is  utterly  unconscious  of  aught  but 
Love.  (LANTBR,  in  a  letter  of  October,  1866.  The  Letters 
«/  Sidney  Lanvtr,  p.  66.) 


And  the  kilns  and  the  curt-tongued  mills 

say  Go! 
There  's  plenty  that  can,  if  you  can't :  we 

know. 

Move  out,  if  you  think  you  're  underpaid. 
The  poor  are  prolific  ;  we  're  not  afraid  ; 
Trade  is  trade."  '  50 

Thereat  this  passionate  protesting 
Meekly  changed,  and  softened  till 
It  sank  to  sad  requesting 
And  suggesting  sadder  still: 
'  And  oh,  if  men  might  sometime  see 
How  piteous-false  the  poor  decree 
That  trade  no  more  than  trade  must  be  ! 
Does  business  mean,  Die,  you  —  live,  I  ? 
Then  "  Trade  is  trade  "  but  sings  a  lie: 
'T  is  only  war  grown  miserly.  60 

If  business  is  battle,  name  it  so: 
War-crimes  less  will  shame  it  so, 
And  widows  less  will  blame  it  so. 
Alas,  for  the  poor  to  have  some  part 
In  yon  sweet  living  lands  of  Art, 
Makes  problem  not  for  head,  but  heart. 
Vainly  might  Plato's  brain  revolve  it: 
Plainly  the  heart  of  a  child  could  solve  it.' 

And  then,  as  when  from  words  that  seem 

but  rude 

We  pass  to  silent  pain  that  sits  abrood      70 
Back  in  our  heart's  great  dark  and  solitude, 
So  sank  the  strings  to  gentle  throbbing 
Of  long  chords  change-marked  with   sob- 
bing — 

Motherly  sobbing,  not  distinctlier  heard 
Than  half  wing-openings  of  the  sleeping 

bird, 
Some  dream  of  danger  to  her  young  hath 

stirred. 

Then  stirring  and  demurring  ceased,  and  lo  ! 
Every  least  ripple  of  the  strings'  song-flow 
Died  to  a  level  with  each  level  bow 
And  made  a  great  chord  tranquil-surfaced 

so,  go 

As  a  brook  beneath  his  curving  bank  doth 

go 

To  linger  in  the  sacred  dark  and  green 
Where  many  boughs  the  still  pool  overlean 
And  many  leaves  make  shadow  with  their 

sheen. 

But  presently 

A  velvet  flute-note  fell  down  pleasantly 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  harmony, 
And  sailed  and  sailed  incessantly, 
As  if  a  petal  from  a  wild-rose  blown 
Had  fluttered  down  upon  that  pool  of  tone 


6i4 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


And  boat  wise  dropped  o'  the  convex  side  9i 

And  floated  down  the  glassy  tide 

And  clarified  and  glorified 

The  solemn  spaces  where  the  shadows  bide. 

From   the   warm   concave    of   that   fluted 

note 
Somewhat,  half  song,  half  odor,  forth  did 

float, 

As  if  a  rose  might  somehow  be  a  throat: 
'  When  Nature  from  her  far-off  glen 
Flutes  her  soft  messages  to  men, 

The  flute  can  say  them  o'er  again;    100 

Yea,  Nature,  singing  sweet  and  lone, 
Breathes  through  life's  strident  polyphone 
The  flute-voice  in  the  world  of  tone. 

Sweet  friends, 

Man's  love  ascends 
To  finer  and  diviner  ends 
Than   man's   mere   thought   e'er   compre- 
hends 

For  I,  e'en  I, 
As  here  I  lie, 

A  petal  on  a  harmony,  no 

Demand  of  Science  whence  and  why 
Man's  tender  pain,  man's  inward  cry, 
When  he  doth  gaze  on  earth  and  sky  ? 
I  am  not  overbold: 

I  hold 

Full  powers  from  Nature  manifold. 
I  speak  for  each  no-tongued  tree 
That,  spring  by  spring,  doth  nobler  be, 
And  dumbly  and  most  wistfully 
His  mighty  prayerful  arms  outspreads    120 
Above  men's  oft-unheeding  heads, 
And  his  big  blessing  downward  sheds. 
I  speak  for  all-shaped  blooms  and  leaves, 
Lichens  on  stones  and  moss  on  eaves, 
Grasses  and  grains  in  ranks  and  sheaves  ; 
Broad-fronded  ferns  and  keen-leaved  canes, 
And  briery  mazes  bounding  lanes, 
And  marsh-plants,  thirsty-cupped  for  rains, 
And  milky  stems  and  sugary  veins; 
For  every  long-armed  woman-vine  130 

That  round  a  piteous  tree  doth  twine ; 
For  passionate  odors,  and  divine 
Pistils,  and  petals  crystalline; 
All  purities  of  shady  springs, 
All  shynesses  of  film-winged  things 
That  fly  from  tree-trunks  and  bark-rings; 
All  modesties  of  mountain-fawns 
That  leap  to  covert  from  wild  lawns, 
And  tremble  if  the  day  but  dawns; 
All  sparklings  of  small  beady  eyes  140 

Of  birds,  and  sidelong  glances  wise 
Wherewith  the  jay  hints  tragedies; 


All  piquancies  of  prickly  burs, 

And  smoothnesses  of  downs  and  furs, 

Of  eiders  and  of  minevers; 

All  limpid  honeys  that  do  lie 

At  stamen-bases,  nor  deny 

The  humming-birds'  fine  roguery, 

Bee-thighs,  nor  any  butterfly; 

All  gracious  curves  of  slender  wings,       150 

Bark-inottlings,  fibre-spiralings, 

Fern-wavings  and  leaf-flickerings; 

Each  dial-marked  leaf  and  flower-bell 

Wherewith  in  every  lonesome  dell 

Time  to  himself  his  hours  doth  tell; 

All  tree-sounds,  rustlings  of  pine-cones, 

Wind-sighings,  doves'  melodious  moans, 

And  night's  unearthly  under-tones; 

All  placid  lakes  and  waveless  deeps, 

All  cool  reposing  mountain-steeps,  160 

Vale-calms  and  tranquil  lotos-sleeps;  — 

Yea,  all  fair  forms,  and  sounds,  and  lights, 

And  warmths,  and  mysteries,  and  mights, 

Of  Nature's  utmost  depths  and  heights, 

—  These  doth  my  timid  tongue  present, 

Their  mouthpiece  and  leal  instrument 

And  servant,  all  love-eloquent. 

I  heard,  when  "  All  for  love  "  the  violins 

cried : 
So,  Nature   calls  through   all  her  system 

wide, 

Give  me  thy  love,  0  man,  so  long  denied.    170 
Much  time  is  run,  and  man  hath  changed 

his  ways, 

Since  Nature,  in  the  antique  fable-days, 
Was  hid  from  man's  true  love  by  proxy 

fays, 
False  fauns  and  rascal  gods  that  stole  her 

praise. 
The  nymphs,  cold  creatures  of  man's  colder 

brain; 
Chilled  Nature's  streams  till  man's  warn: 

heart  was  fain 

Never  to  lave  its  love  in  them  again. 
Later,  a  sweet  Voice  Love  thy  neighbor  said, 
Then  first  the  bounds  of  neighborhood  out- 
spread 

Beyond  all  confines  of  old  ethnic  dread.  180 
Vainly  the  Jew  might  wag  his  covenant 

head: 
"All  men  are  neighbors,"  so  the  sweet  Voice 

said. 
So,  when  man's  arms  had  circled  all  man's 

race, 

The  liberal  compass  of  his  warm  embrace 
Stretched  bigger  yet  in  the  dark  bounds  of 

space ; 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


With  hands  a-grope  he  felt  smooth  Nature's 
grace, 

Drew  her  to  breast  and  kissed  her  sweet- 
heart face: 

Yea,  man  found  neighbors  in  great  hills  and 
trees 

And  streams  and  clouds  and  suns  and  birds 
and  bees, 

And  throbbed  with  neighbor-loves  in  loving 


But  oh,  the  poor  !  the  poor  !  the  poor  ! 

That  stand  by  the  inward-opening  door 

Trade's  hand  doth  tighten  ever  more, 

And  sigh  their  monstrous  foul-air  sigh 

For  the  outside  hills  of  liberty, 

Where  Nature  spreads  her  wild  blue  sky 

For  Art  to  make  into  melody  ! 

Thou  Trade  !  thou  king  of  the  modern  days  ! 

Change  thy  ways, 

Change  thy  ways;  200 

Let  the  sweaty  laborers  file 

A  little  while, 

A  little  while, 

Where  Art  and  Nature  sing  and  smile. 
Trade  !  is  thy  heart  all  dead,  all  dead  ? 
And  hast  thou  nothing  but  a  head  ? 
I  'm  all  for  heart,'  the  flute-voice  said, 
And  into  sudden  silence  fled, 
Like  as  a  blush  that  while  't  is  red. 
Dies  to  a  still,  still  white  instead.  210 

Thereto  a  thrilling  calm  succeeds, 
Till  presently  the  silence  breeds 
A  little  breeze  among  the  reeds 
That  seems  to  blow  by  sea-marsh  weeds: 
Then  from  the  gentle  stir  and  fret 
Sings  out  the  melting  clarionet, 
Like  as  a  lady  sings  while  yet 
Her  eyes  with  salty  tears  are  wet. 
'  O  Trade  !  O  Trade  ! '  the  Lady  said, 
'  I  too  will  wish  thee  utterly  dead  220 

If  all  thy  heart  is  in  thy  head. 
For  O  my  God  I  and  O  my  God  ! 
What  shameful  ways  have  women  trod 
At  beckoning  of  Trade's  golden  rod  ! 
Alas  when  sighs  are  traders'  lies, 
And  heart's-ease  eyes  and  violet  eyes 

Are  merchandise  ! 

O  purchased  lips  that  kiss  with  pain  ! 
O  cheeks  coin-spotted  with  smirch  and  stain! 
O  trafficked  hearts  that  break  in  twain!  230 
—  And   yet   what   wonder   at   my  sisters' 

crime  ? 
So  hath  Trade  withered  up  Love's  sinewy 

prime, 


Men  love  not  women  as  in  olden  time. 
Ah,  not  in  these  cold  merchantable  days 
Deem  men  their  life  an  opal  gray,  where 

plays 

The  one  red  Sweet  of  gracious  ladies'-praise. 
Now,  comes   a   suitor  with   sharp   prying 

eye  — 

Says,  Here,  you  Lady,  if  you  'II  sell,  I'll  buy: 
Come,   heart  for  heart  —  a  trade?    What! 

weeping  ?  why  ? 

Shame  on  such  wooers'  dapper  mercery  ! 
I  would  my  lover  kneeling  at  my  feet     241 
In  humble  manliness  should  cry,  0  sweet ! 
1  know  not  if  thy  heart  my  heart  will  greet  : 
1  ask  not  if  thy  love  my  love  can  meet  : 
Whatever  thy  worshipful  soft  tongue  shall  say, 
1  'II  kis.i  thine  answer,  be  it  yea  or  nay  : 
I  do  but  know  I  love  thee,  and  I  pray 
To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day. 
Woe  him  that  cunning  trades  in  hearts  con- 
trives ! 

Base    love    good    women    to    base    loving 

drives.  250 

If  men  loved  larger,  larger  were  our  lives; 

And  wooed  they  nobler,  won  they  nobler 

wives.' 

There  thrust  the  bold  straightforward  horn 
To  battle  for  that  lady  lorn, 
With  heartsome  voice  of  mellow  scorn, 
Like  any  knight  in  knighthood's  morn. 
'  Now  comfort  thee,'  said  he, 

«  Fair  Lady.    , 

For  God  shall  right  thy  grievous  wrong, 
And  man  shall  sing  thee  a  true-love  song, 
Voiced  in  act  his  whole  life  long,  261 

.  Yea,  all  thy  sweet  life  long, 

Fair  Lady. 

Where  's  he  that  craftily  hath  said, 
The  day  of  chivalry  is  dead  ? 
I  '11  prove  that  lie  upon  his  head, 
Or  I  will  die  instead, 

Fair  Lady. 

Is  Honor  gone  into  his  grave  ? 
Hath  Faith  become  a  caitiff  knave,  t/o 

And  Selfhood  turned  into  a  slave 
To  work  in  Mammon's  cave, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Will  Truth's  long  blade  ne'er  gleam  again  ? 
Hath  Giant  Trade  in  dungeons  slain 
All  great  contempts  of  mean-got  gain 
And  hates  of  inward  stain, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

For  aye  shall  name  and  fame  be  sold, 
And  place  be  hugged  for  the  sake  of  gold, 


6i6 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


And  smirch-robed  Justice  feebly  scold     28 1 
At  Crime  all  money-bold, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Shall  self-wrapt  husbands  aye  forget 
Kiss-pardons  for  the  daily  fret 
Wherewith  sweet  wifely  eyes  are  wet  — 
Blind  to  lips  kiss-wise  set  — 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Shall  lovers  higgle,  heart  for  heart, 
Till  wooing  grows  a  trading  mart  290 

Where  much  for  little,  and  all  for  part, 
Make  love  a  cheapening  art, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Shall  woman  scorch  for  a  single  sin 
That  her  betrayer  may  revel  in, 
And  she  be  burnt,  and  he  but  grin 
When  that  the  flames  begin, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Shall  ne'er  prevail  the  woman's  plea, 
We  maids  would  far,  far  whiter  be  300 

If  that  our  eyes  might  sometimes  see 
Men  maids  in  purity, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Shall  Trade  aye  salve  his  conscience-aches 
With  jibes  at  Chivalry's  old  mistakes  — 
The  wars  that  o'erhot  knighthood  makes 
For  Christ's  and  ladies'  sakes, 

Fair  Lady  ? 

Now  by  each  knight  that  e'er  hath  prayed 
To  fight  like  a  man  and  love  like  a  maid,  310 
Since  Pembroke's  life,  as  Pembroke's  blade, 
I'  the  scabbard,  death,  was  laid, 

Fair  Lady, 

I  dare  avouch  my  faith  is  bright 
That  God  doth  right  and  God  hath  might. 
Nor  time  bath  changed  His  hair  to  white, 
Nor  His  dear  love  to  spite, 

Fair  Lady. 
I  doubt  no  doubts:  I  strive,  and  shrive  my 

clay, 

And  fight  my  fight  in  the  patient  modern 

way  320 

For  true  love  and  for  thee  —  ah  me  !  and 

pray 
To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day, 

Fair  Lady.' 
Made  end  that  knightly  horn,  and  spurred 

away 
Into  the  thick  of  the  melodious  fray. 

And  then  the  hautboy  played  and  smiled, 
And  sang  like  any  large-eyed  child, 
Cool-hearted  and  all  undefiled. 

'  Huge  Trade  ! '  he  said, 
'Would  thou  wouldst  lift  me  on  thy  head 


And  run  where'er  my  finger  led  !  33r 

Once  said  a  Man  —  and  wise  was  He  — 

Never  shalt  thou  the  heavens  see, 

Save  as  a  little  child  thou  be.' 

Then    o'er     sea-lashings   of   commingling 

tunes 
The  ancient  wise  bassoons, 

Like  weird 

Gray-beard 
Old  harpers  sitting  on  the  high  sea-dunes, 

Chanted  runes:  340. 

'  Bright-waved  gain,  gray-waved  loss, 
The  sea  of  all  doth  lash  and  toss, 
One  wave  forward  and  one  across : 
But  now  't  was  trough,  now  't  is  crest, 
And  worst  doth  foam  and  flash  to  best, 

And  curst  to  blest. 

'  Life  !    Life  !    thou   sea-fugue,  writ  from 

east  to  west, 

Love,  Love  alone  can  pore 
On  thy  dissolving  score 
Of  harsh  half-phrasings,  350 

Blotted  ere  writ, 
And  double  erasings 

Of  chords  most  fit. 
Yea,  Love,  sole  music-master  blest, 
May  read  thy  weltering  palimpsest. 
To  follow  Time's  dying  melodies  through, 
And  never  to  lose  the  old  in  the  new, 
And  ever  to  solve  the  discords  true  — 

Love  alone  can  do. 

And  ever  Love  hears  the  poor-folks'  cry- 
ing, 36o 
And  ever  Love  hears  the  women's  sighing, 
And  ever  sweet  knighthood's  death-defy- 
ing, 

And  ever  wise  childhood's  deep  implying, 
But  never  a  trader's  glozing  and  lying. 

'  And  yet  shall  Love  himself  be  heard, 
Though   long    deferred,    though   long  di 

f  erred: 

O'er  the  modern  waste  a  dove  hath  whirred: 
Music  is  Love  in  search  of  a  word.' 
1876.  1875. 

EVENING   SONG 

LOOK   off,   dear   Love,   across  the   sallow 

sands, 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and 

sea, 

How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the  lands. 
Ah  !  longer,  longer,  we. 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


617 


Now  in  the   sea's  red  vintage  melts  the 

sun, 

As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine, 
And  Cleopatra  night  drinks  all.    'T  is  done, 
Love,  lay  thine  hand  in  mine. 

Come    forth,    sweet    stars,    and    comfort 

heaven's  heart; 
Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  unlighted 


O  night  !  divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart 
Never  our  lips,  our  hands. 


THE   WAVING   OF   THE    CORN1 

PLOUGHMAN,    whose    gnarly    hand    yet 

kindly  wheeled 
Thy  plough  to  ring  this  solitary  tree 

With  clover,  whose  round  plat,  reserved 

a-field, 
In  cool  green  radius  twice  my  length  may 

be  — 
Scanting  the  corn  thy  furrows  else  might 

yield, 
To   pleasure   August,  bees,  fair  thoughts, 

and  me, 

That  here  come  oft  together  —  daily  I, 
Stretched   prone   in  summer's  mortal 

ecstasy, 

Bo  stir  with  thanks  to  thee,  as  stirs  this 
morn 

With  waving  of  the  corn.  10 

Unseen,  the  farmer's  boy  from  round  the 

hill 

Whistles  a  snatch  that  seeks  his  soul  un- 
sought, 
And  fills  some  time  with  tune,  howbeit 

shrill; 
The   cricket   tells   straight   on   his  simple 

thought  — 

Nay,  'tis  the  cricket's  way  of  being  still; 
The   peddler   bee   drones   in,  and   gossips 

naught; 
Far   down   the   wood,  a   one-desiring 

dove 
Times  me  the  beating  of  the  heart  of 

love: 

And  these  be  all  the  sounds  that  mix,  each 
morn, 

With  waving  of  the  corn.  20 

1  Compare  the  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier,  p.  172,  letter 
from  Bayard  Taylor. 


From  here  to  where  the  louder  passions 

dwell, 

Green  leagues  of  hilly  separation  roll: 
Trade  ends  where  yon  far  clover  ridges 

swell. 

Ye  terrible  Towns,  ne'er  claim  the  trem- 
bling soul 

That,  craf  tless  all  to  buy  or  hoard  or  sell, 
From   out   your   deadly   complex   quarrel 

stole 

To  company  with  large  amiable  trees, 
Suck   honey   summer   with   unjealous 

bees, 

And  take  Time's  strokes  as  softly  as  this 
morn 

Takes  waving  of  the  corn.  jo 

1876.  1877. 


SONNETS   ON    COLUMBUS 

FROM   THE   PSALM   OF   THE   WEST 

COLUMBUS  stands  in  the  night  alone,  and, 

passing  grave, 
Yearns  o'er  the  sea  as  tones  o'er  under- 

silence  yearn. 
Heartens  his  heart  as  friend  befriends  his 

friend  less  brave, 

Makes   burn   the   faiths   that   cool,  and 
cools  the  doubts  that  burn:  — 


'  'Twixt   this  and   dawn,   three   hours   my 

soul  will  smite 

With  prickly  seconds,  or  less  tolerably 
With  dull-blade  minutes  flatwise  slapping 

me. 
Wait,  Heart!  Time  moVes.  — Thou   lithe 

young  Western  Night, 
Just-crowned  king,  slow  riding  to  thy  right, 
Would   God   that   I   might   straddle  mu- 
tiny I0 
Calm  as  thou  sitt'st   yon   never-managed 

sea, 
Balk'st   with   his   balking,   fliest   with  his 

flight, 

Giv'st  supple  to  his  rearings  and  his  falls, 
Nor   dropp'st  one  coronal  star  about  thy 

brow 
Whilst  ever  dayward  thou  art  steadfast 

drawn! 
Yea,  would  I  rode  these  nlad  contentious 

brawls 


6i8 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


No  damage  taking  from  their  If  and  How, 
Nor  no  result  save  galloping  to  my  Dawn ! 


'  My  Dawn  ?  my  Dawn  ?     How  if  it  never 

break? 
How    if  this    West    by    other    Wests    is 

pieced,  20 

And  these  by  vacant  Wests  on  Wests  in- 
creased — 
One  Pain  of  Space,  with  hollow  ache  on 

ache 
Throbbing  and  ceasing  not  for  Christ's  own 

sake  ?  — 
Big  perilous  theorem,  hard  for  king  and 

priest: 
Pursue    the   West   but   long   enough,  't  is 

East! 

Oh,  if  this  watery  world  no  turning  take  ! 
Oh,  if  for  all  my  logic,  all  my  dreams, 
Provings  of  that  which  is  by  that  which 

seems, 
Fears,  hopes,  chills,  heats,  hastes,  patiences, 

droughts,  tears, 
Wife-grievings,  slights  on  love,  embezzled 

years,  30 

Hates,  treaties,  scorns,  upliftiugs,  loss  and 

gain, — 
This  earth,  no  sphere,  be  all  one  sickening 

plane  ! 


'  Or,  haply,  how  if  this  contrarious  West, 
That  me  by  turns  hath  starved,  by  turns 

hath  fed, 

Embraced,  disgraced,  beat  back,  solicited, 
Have   no   fixed   heart  of  Law  within   his 

breast, 
Or  with  some  different  rhythm  doth  e'er 

contest 
Nature  in  the  East  ?    Why,  't  is  but  three 

weeks  fled 

I  saw  my  Judas  needle  shake  his  head 
And  flout  the  Pole  that,  east,  he  Lord  con- 
fessed !  4o 
God !  if  this  West  should  own  some  other 

Pole, 
And    with   his    tangled   way   perplex   my 

soul 

Until  the  maze  grow  mortal,  and  I  die 
Where  distraught  Nature  clean  hath  gone 

astray, 
On  earth  some  other  wit  than  Time's  at 

play>    ' 

Some  other  God  than  mine  above  the  sky  ! 


'  Now  speaks  mine  other  heart  with  cheer- 
ier seeming  : 

Ho,  Admiral !  o'er-defalking  to  thy  crew 

Against  thyself,  thyself  far  overfew 

To  front  yon  multitudes  of  rebel  scheming  ?  50 

Come,  ye  wild  twenty  years  of  heavenly 
dreaming  ! 

Come,  ye  wild  weeks  since  first  this  canvas 
drew 

Out  of  vexed  Palos  ere  the  dawn  was 
blue, 

O'er  milky  waves  about  the  bows  full- 
creaming  ! 

Come  set  me  round  with  many  faithful 
spears 

Of  confident  remembrance  —  how  I  crushed 

Cat -lived  rebellions,  pitf ailed  treasons, 
hushed 

Scared  husbands'  heart-break  cries  on  dis- 
tant wives, 

Made  cowards  blush  at  whining  for  their 
lives, 

Watered  my  parching  souls,  and  dried  their 
tears.  60 


'  Ere  we  Gomera  cleared,  a  coward  cried, 
Turn,  turn :  here  be  three  caravels  ahead, 
From  Portugal,  to  take  us :  we  are  dead  ! 
Hold  Westward,  pilot,  calmly  I  replied. 
So  when  the  last  land   down  the  horizon 

died, 
Go  back,  go  back  I  they  prayed  :  our  hearts 

are  lead.  — 
Friends,    we   are    bound  into    the    West,    I 

said. 
Then  passed  the  wreck  of  a  mast  upon  our 

side. 

See  (so  they  wept)  God's  Warning!  Admi- 
ral, turn  !  — 
Steersman,    I    said,   hold   straight   into   the 

West.  7o 

Then   down  the  night  we  saw  the  meteor 

burn. 

So  do  the  very  heavens  injire  protest: 
Good  Admiral,  put  about !     O  Spain,  dear 

Spain  !  — 
Hold  straight  into  the  West,  I  said  again. 

VI 

'  Next   drive    we   o'er    the    slimy-weeded 

sea. 

Lo  !  herebeneath  (another  coward  cries) 
The  cursed  land  of  sunk  Atlantis  lies.' 


SIDNEY  LANIER 


619 


This  slime  will  suck  us  down  —  turn  while 

thou 'rt  free! — 

But  no  !  I  said,  Freedom  bears  West  for  me  ! 
Yet  when  the   long-time   stagnant   winds 

arise,  So 

And  day  by  day  the  keel  to  westward  flies, 
My  Good  my  people's   111   doth   come  to 

be: 

Ever  the  winds  into  the  West  do  blow  ; 
Never  a  ship,  once  turned,  might  homeward 

9°; 

Meanwhile  we  speed  into  the  lonesome  main. 
For  Chrisfs  sake,  parley,  Admiral!    Turn, 

before 
We  sail  outside   all    bounds  of  help  from 

pain  !  — 
Our  help  is  in  the  West,  I  said  once  more. 


'So   when   there   came   a   mighty   cry   of 

Land! 
And  we  clomb  up  and  saw,  and  shouted 

strong  90 

Salve  Regina  !  all  the  ropes  along, 
But  knew  at  morn  how  that  a  counterfeit 

band 

Of  level  clouds  had  aped  a  silver  strand; 
So  when  we  heard  the  orchard-bird's  small 

song, 

And  all  the  people  cried,  A  hellish  throng 
To  tempt  us  onward  by  the  Devil  planned, 
Yea,  all  from  hell  —  keen  heron,  fresh  green 

weeds, 

Pelican,  tunny-fish,  fair  tapering  reeds, 
Lie-telling  lands  that  ever  shine  and  die 
In  clouds  of  nothing  round  the  empty  sky.  100 
Tired  Admiral,  get  thee  from  this  hell,  and 

rest !  — 
Steersman,  I  said,  hold  straight  into  the  West. 


'  I  marvel  how  mine  eye,  ranging  the  Night, 
From  its  big  circling  ever  absently 
Returns,  thou   large   low   Star,  to   fix  on 

thee. 

Maria  !   Star  ?  No  star:  a  Light,  a  Light  ! 
Would' st  leap  ashore,  Heart  ?  Yonder  burns 

—  a  Light. 

Pedro  Gutierrez,  wake  !  come  up  to  me. 
I  prithee  stand  and  gaze  about  the  sea: 
What   seest  ?    A  dmiral,  like   as  Land  —  a 

Light !  no 

Well !  Sanchez  of  Segovia,  come  and  try  : 
What  seest  ?  Admiral,  naught  but  sea  and 

sky! 


Well  !    But  7  saw  It.    Wait !  the  Pinta's 

gun  ! 
Why,  look,   't  is  dawn,  the  land  is  clear : 

't  is  done  ! 
Two  dawns  do  break  at  once  from  Time's 

full  hand  — 
God's,  East  —  mine,  West  :   good  friends, 

behold  my  Land  ! ' 
1876.  1876. 


TO    BEETHOVEN 

IN  o'er-strict  calyx  lingering, 

Lay  music's  bud  too  long  unblown, 

Till  thou,  Beethoven,  breathed  the  spring: 
Then  bloomed  the  perfect  rose  of  tone. 

0  Psalmist  of  the  weak,  the  strong, 
O  Troubadour  of  love  and  strife, 

Co-Litanist  of  right  and  wrong, 
Sole  Hymner  of  the  whole  of  life, 

1  know  not  how,  I  care  not  why,  — 

Thy  music  sets  my  world  at  ease,  10 

And  melts  my  passion's  mortal  cry 
In  satisfying  symphonies. 

It  soothes  my  accusations  sour 

'Gainst  thoughts  that  fray  the  restless 

soul: 
The  stain  of  death;  the  pain  of  power; 

The  lack  of  love  'twixt  part  and  whole; 

The  yea-nay  of  Freewill  and  Fate, 
Whereof  both  cannot  be,  yet  are; 

The  praise  a  poet  wins  too  late 

Who  starves  from  earth  into  a  star;      20 

The  lies  that  serve  great  parties  well, 
While   truths   but   give   their   Christ   a 
cross; 

The  loves  that  send  warm  souls  to  hell, 
While  cold-blood  neuters  take  no  loss; 

Th'  indifferent  smile  that  nature's  grace 

On  Jesus,  Judas,  pours  alike; 
Th'  indifferent  frown  on  nature's  face 

When     luminous     lightnings    strangely 
strike 

The  sailor  praying  on  his  knees  2* 

And  spare  his  mate  that's  cursing  God; 

How  babes  and  widows  starve  and  freeze, 
Yet  Nature  will  not  stir  a  clod; 


620 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Why  Nature  blinds  us  in  each  act 
Yet  makes  no  law  in  mercy  bend, 

No  pitfall  from  our  feet  retract, 

No  storm  cry  out,  Take  shelter,  friend  ; 

Why  snakes  that  crawl  the  earth  should  ply 
Rattles,  that  whoso  hears  may  shun, 

While  serpent  lightnings  in  the  sky, 
But  rattle  when  the  deed  is  done;  4o 

How  truth  can  e'er  be  good  for  them 
That  have  not  eyes  to  bear  its  strength, 

And  yet  how  stern  our  lights  condemn 
Delays  that  lend  the  darkness  length; 

To  know  all  things,  save  knowingness; 

To  grasp,  yet  loosen,  feeling's  rein; 
To  waste  no  manhood  on  success; 

To  look  with  pleasure  upon  pain; 

Though  teased  by  small  mixt  social  claims, 
To  lose  no  large  simplicity,  50 

And  midst  of  clear-seen  crimes  and  shames 
To  move  with  manly  purity; 

To  hold,  with  keen,  yet  loving  eyes, 
Art's  realm  from  Cleverness  apart, 

To  know  the  Clever  good  and  wise, 

Yet  haunt  the  lonesome  heights  of  Art; 

0  Psalmist  of  the  weak,  the  strong, 
O  Troubadour  of  love  and  strife, 

Co-Litanist  of  right  and  wrong, 

Sole  Hymner  of  the  whole  of  life,          60 

1  know  not  how,  I  care  not  why, 
Thy  music  brings  this  broil  at  ease, 

And  melts  my  passion's  mortal  cry 
In  satisfying  symphonies. 

Yea,  it  forgives  me  all  my  sins, 

Fits  life  to  love  like  rhyme  to  rhyme, 

And  tunes  the  task  each  day  begins 
By  the  last  trumpet-note  of  Time. 

1876-77.  1877. 

THE   MOCKING   BIRD 

SUPERB  and  sole,  upon  a  plumed  spray 
That  o'er  the  general  leafage  boldly  grew, 
He  summ'd  the  woods  in  song;  or  typic 

drew 

The  watch  of  hungry  hawks,  the  lone  dismay 
Of  languid  doves  when  long  their  lovers 

stray, 


And  all  birds'  passion-plays  that  sprinkle 

dew 

At  morn  in  brake  or  bosky  avenue. 
Whate'er  birds  did  or  dreamed,  this  bird 

could  say. 

Then  down  he  shot,  bounced  airily  along 
The  sward,  twitched  in  a  grasshopper,  made 

song 
Midflight,  perched,  prinked,  and  to  his  art 

again. 
Sweet  Science,  this   large  riddle  read  me 

plain: 

How  may  the  death  of  that  dull  insect  be 
The  life  of  yon   trim   Shakspere   on  the 

fr-oo  91 


tree  ? : 


1877. 


TAMPA   ROBINS 

THE  robin  laughed  in  the  orange-tree  : 
'Ho,  windy  North,  a  fig  for  thee: 
While  breasts  are  red  and  wings  are  bold 
And  green  trees  wave  us  globes  of  gold, 
Time's  scythe  shall  reap  but  bliss  for  me 
—  Sunlight,  song,  and  the  orange-tree. 

'  Burn,  golden  globes  in  leafy  sky, 
My  orange-planets  :  crimson  I 
Will  shine  and  shoot  among  the  spheres 
(Blithe  meteor  that  no  mortal  fears) 
And  thrid  the  heavenly  orange-tree 
With  orbits  bright  of  minstrelsy. 

'  If  that  I  hate  wild  winter's  spite  — 
The  gibbet  trees,  the  world  in  white, 
The  sky  but  gray  wind  over  a  grave  — 
Why  should  I  ache,  the  season's  slave  ? 

I  '11  sing  from  the  top  of  the  orange-tree 

Gramercy,  winter's  tyranny. 

'  I  '11  south  with  the  sun,  and  keep  my  clime  j 
My  wing  is  king  of  the  summer-time; 
My  breast  to  the  sun  his  torch  shall  hold; 
And  I  '11  call  down  through  the  green  and 

gold 

Time,  take  thy  scythe,  reap  bliss  for  me, 
Bestir  thee  under  the  orange-tree.1 
1877.  1877. 

i  ...  Yon  trim  Shakspere  on  the  tree 

leads  back,  almost  twenty  years  from  its  writing,  to 
the  poet's  college  note-book,  where  we  find  the  boy  re- 
flecting :  '  A  poet  is  the  mocking-bird  of  the  spiritual 
universe.  In  him  are  collected  all  the  individual  songs 
of  all  individual  natures.'  (Mrs.  LANIEK,  note,  in  th» 
Poems,  1884.) 


SIDNEY  LANIER 


621 


FROM   THE  FLATS 

WHAT  heartache  —  ne'er  a  hill ! 
Inexorable,  vapid,  vague  and  chill 
The  drear  sand-levels  drain  my  spirit  low. 
With  one  poor  word  they  tell  me  all  they 

know ; 
Whereat  their  stupid  tongues,  to  tease  my 

pain, 

Do  drawl  it  o'er  again  and  o'er  again. 
They  hurt  my  heart  with  griefs  I  cannot 

name  : 
Always  the  same,  the  same. 

Nature  hath  no  surprise, 
No  ambuscade  of  beauty  'gainst  mine  eyes 
From  brake  or  lurking  dell  or  deep  defile ; 
No  humors,  frolic  forms  —  this  mile,  that 

mile; 

No  rich  reserves  or  happy-valley  hopes 
Beyond  the  bend  of  roads,  the  distant  slopes. 
Her  fancy  fails,  her  wild  is  all  run  tame: 

Ever  the  same,  the  same. 

Oh,  might  I  through  these  tears 

But  glimpse  some  hill  my  Georgia  high 
uprears, 

Where  white  the  quartz  and  pink  the  pebble 
shine, 

The  hickory  heavenward  strives,  the  mus- 
cadine 

Swings  o'er  the  slope,  the  oak's  far-falling 


Darkens  the  dogwood  in  the  bottom  glade, 
And  down  the  hollow  from  a  ferny  nook 

Lull  sings  a  little  brook ! 
1877.  1877. 

THE   STIRRUP-CUP 

DEATH,  thou  'rt  a  cordial  old  and  rare : 
Look  how  compounded,  with  what  care ! 
Time  got  his  wrinkles  reaping  thee 
Sweet  herbs  from  all  antiquity. 

David  to  thy  distillage  went, 
Keats,  and  Gotama  excellent, 
Omar  Khayyam,  and  Chaucer  bright, 
And  Shakspere  for  a  king-delight. 

Then,  Time,  let  not  a  drop  be  spilt: 
Hand  me  the  cup  whene'er  thou  wilt; 
'T  is  thy  rich  stirrup-cup  to  me; 
I  '11  drink  it  down  right  smilingly. 
7*77.  1877. 


SONG   OF   THE   CHATTAHOO- 
CHEE 

OUT  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall.  10 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  willful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide, 
Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall.  ao 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The    chestnut,   the   oak,  the   walnut,   the 

pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and 

sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall.     30 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oft  hi  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the   smooth 

brook-stone 

Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
—  Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 

Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming 

stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall.     4c 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 

Avail:  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 

Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call  — 


622 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the 

main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to 

turn, 

And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall.      50 
1877.  1877. 


THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN  » 

GLOOJUS  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided 

and  woven 

With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  my- 
riad-cloven 

Clamber   the    forks    of    the   multiform 
boughs,  — 

Emerald  twilights,  — 
Virginal  shy  lights, 
Wrought  of  the   leaves  to   allure  to  the 

whisper  of  vows, 
When   lovers   pace  timidly  down  through 

the  green  colonnades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark 

woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach 
within  .          10 

The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn;  — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon- 
day fire,  — 

Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 

Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  waver- 
ing arras  of  leaves,  — 

Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer 
to  the  soul  that  grieves, 

Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints 
through  the  wood, 

Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with 
good; — 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven 
shades  of  the  vine, 

While  the  riotous  noon-day  sun  of  the  June- 
day  long  did  shine 

Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held 
you  fast  hi  mine ;  20 

1  The  salt  marshes  of  Glynn  County,  Georgia,  imme- 
diately around  the  sea-coast  city  of  Brunswick. 

The  three  '  Hymns  of  the  Marshes  '  .  .  .  are  the  only 
written  portions  of  a  series  of  six  '  Marsh  Hymns  '  that 
were  designed  by  the  author  to  form  a  separate  volume. 
<Mrs.  LANIEB.) 


But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and 

riot  is  rest, 
And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous  gate 

of  the  West, 

And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood- 
aisle  doth  seem 
Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a 

dream,  — 
Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken 

the  soul  of  the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the 

wearisome  sound  of  the  stroke 
Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of 

trade  is  low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know 

that  I  know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great 

compass  within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the 

sweep  of  the  Marshes  of  Glynn      30 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they 

have  wrought  me  of  yore 
When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth 

was  but  bitterness  sore, 
And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary 

unnamable  pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of 

the  pkin,  — 

Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am 

drawn, 
Where   the  gray   beach  glimmering  runs, 

as  a  belt  of  the  dawn, 
For  a  mete  and  a  mark 

To  the  forest-dark  :  —  4 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low,  — 
Thus  —  with  your  favor  —  soft,  with  a  re\ 

event  hand 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of 

the  land  !), 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I 

stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 
By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world 

of  sea. 
Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward 

the  shimmering  band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of 
the  marsh  to  the  folds  of  the  land.  50 
Inward  and  outward  to  northward  and  south- 
ward the  beach-lines  linger  and  curl 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


623 


•Is  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to 
and  follows  the  firm  sweet  limbs  of 
a  girl. 

Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving 
again  into  sight, 

Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim 

And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the 
wall  of  the  woods  stands  high  ? 

The  world  lies  east:  how  ample,  the  marsh 
and  the  sea  and  the  sky  ! 

A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist- 
high,  broad  in  the  blade, 

>reen,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked 
with  a  light  or  a  shade, 

Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 

To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main.  60 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the 

terminal  sea  ? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of   fate  and   the  sad 

discussion  of  sin, 
By   the   length   and   the  breadth  and  the 

sweep  of  the  marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  no- 
thing-withholding and  free 

Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer 
yourselves  to  the  sea  ! 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the 
rains  and  the  sun, 

Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man 
who  hath  mightily  won 

God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of 
infinite  pain 

And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out 
of  a  stain.  7o 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the 
watery  sod, 

Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  great- 
ness of  God: 

I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the 
marsh-hen  flies 

In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space 
'twixt  the  marsh  and  the  skies: 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends 
in  the  sod 

I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  great- 
ness of  God: 

Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the 
greatness  within 

The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal 
marshes  of  Glynn. 


And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh:  lo, 

out  of  his  plenty  the  sea 
Pours  fast:  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood- 
tide  must  be:  80 
Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About    and  about   through    the    intricate 

channels  that  flow 
Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost 

creeks  and  the  low-lying  lanes, 
And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a   million 

veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences 

flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun  ! 
The  creeks  overflow:  a  thousand   rivulets 

run  9o 

'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod;  the  blades  of 

the  marsh-grass  stir; 
Passeth  a   hurrying  sound   of   wings  that 

westward  whirr; 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still;  and  the  currents 

cease  to  run; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be  ! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height: 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will 
the  waters  of  sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men,  100 

But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 

The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that 
creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 

And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth 
below  when  the  tide  comes  in 

On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  mar- 
vellous marshes  of  Glynn. 

1878.  1878. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  HAMISH 

IT  was  three  slim  does  and  a  ten-tined  buck 

in  the  bracken  lay; 
And  all  of  a  sudden  the  sinister  smell  of 

a  man, 

Awaft  on  a  wind-shift,  wavered  and  ran 
Down  the  hillside  and  sifted  along  through 
the  bracken  and  passed  that  way. 


624 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


Then  Nan  got  a-tremble  at  nostril ;  she  was 

the  daintiest  doe; 
In  the  print  of  her  velvet  flank  on  the 

velvet  fern 

She  reared,  and  rounded  her  ears  in  turn. 
Then  the  buck  leapt  up,  and  his  head  as  a 
king's  to  a  crown  did  go 

Full  high  in  the  breeze,  and  he  stood  as  if 

Death  had  the  form  of  a  deer; 
And  the  two  slim  does  long  lazily  stretch- 
ing arose,  10 
For  their  day-dream  slowlier  came  to  a 

close, 

Till  they  woke  and  were  still,  breath-bound 
with  waiting  and  wonder  and  fear. 

Then  Alan  the  huntsman  sprang  over  the 

hillock,  the  hounds  shot  by, 
The  does  and  the  ten-tined  buck  made  a 

marvellous  bound, 
The  hounds  swept   after  with    never   a 

sound, 

But  Alan  loud  winded  his  horn  in  sign  that 
the  quarry  was  nigh. 

For  at  dawn  of  that  day  proud  Maclean  of 
Lochbuy   to   the    hunt   had   waxed 
wild, 
And  he  cursed  at  old  Alan  till  Alan  fared 

off  with  the  hounds 

For  to  drive  him  the  deer  to  the  lower 
glen-grounds : 

'I  will  kill  a  red  deer,'  quoth  Maclean, 
'in  the  sight  of  the  wife  and  the 
child.'  20 

So  gayly  he  paced  with  the  wife  and  the 

child  to  his  chosen  stand; 
But  he  hurried  tall  Hamish  the  hench- 
man ahead :  '  Go  turn,'  — 
Cried   Maclean, — 'if  the  deer  seek  to 

cross  to  the  burn, 

Do  thou  turn  them  to  me:  nor  fail,  lest  thy 
back  be  red  as  thy  hand.' 

Now  hard-fortuned  Hamish,  half  blown  of 
his   breath  with  the  height  of  the 
hill, 
Was  white  in  the  face  when  the  ten-tined 

buck  and  the  does 

Drew  leaping  to  burn-ward ;  huskily  rose 

His  shouts,  and  his  nether  lip  twitched,  and 

his    legs   were    o'er-weak    for    his 

win. 


So  the  deer  darted  lightly  by  Hamish  and 

bounded  away  to  the  burn. 
But  Maclean  never  bating  his  watch  tar- 
ried waiting  below ;  30 
Still  Hamish  hung  heavy  with  fear  for 

to  go 

All  the  space  of  an  hour;  then  he  went,an< 
his  face  was  greenish  and  stern, 

And  his  eye  sat  back  in  the  socket,  and 

shrunken  the  eye-balls  shone, 
As  withdrawn  from  a  vision  of  deeds  it 

were  shame  to  see. 
'  Now,  now,  grim  henchman,  what  is  't 

with  thee  ?  ' 

Brake  Maclean,  and  his  wrath  rose  red  as 
a  beacon  the  wind  hath  upblown. 

'Three  does   and  a  ten-tined  buck   made 

out,'  spoke  Hamish,  full  mild, 
'  And  I  ran  for  to  turn,  but  my  breath  it 

was  blown,  and  they  passed; 
I  was  weak,  for  ye  called  ere  I  broke  me 

my  fast.' 

Cried  Maclean:  'Now  a  ten-tined  buck  in 
the  sight  of  the  wife  and  the  child  4o 

I  had  killed  if  the  gluttonous  kern  had  not 

wrought  me  a  snail's  own  wrong  ! ' 
Then  he  sounded,  and  down  came  kins- 
men and  clansmen  all: 
'  Ten  blows,  for  ten  tine,  on  his  back  let 

fall, 

And  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow 
not  at  the  bite  of  thong  ! ' 

So  Hamish  made  bare,  and  took  him  his 

strokes;  at  the  last  he  smiled. 
'  Now  I  '11  to  the  burn,'  quoth  Maclean, 

'  for  it  still  may  be, 
If   a    slimmer-paunched   henchman  will 

hurry  with  me, 

I  shall  kill  me  the  ten-tined  buck  for  a  gift 
to  the  wife  and  the  child  ! ' 

Then  the  clansmen  departed,  by  this  path 

and  that;  and  over  the  hill 
Sped  Maclean  with  an  outward  wrath  for 
an  inward  shame;  50 

And  that  place  of  the  lashing  full  quiet 

became ; 

And  the  wife  and  the  child  stood  sad;  and 
bloody-backed  Hamish  sat  still. 

But  look  !    red   Hamish   has  risen ;    qviick 
about  and  about  turns  he. 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


625 


'  There  is  none  betwixt  me  and  the  crag- 
top  ! '  he  screams  under  breath. 
Then,  livid  as  Lazarus  lately  from  death, 
He  snatches  the  child  from  the  mother,  and 
clambers  the  crag  toward  the  sea. 

Now  the  mother  drops  breath ;  she  is  dumb, 

and  her  heart  goes  dead  for  a  space, 

Till  the  motherhood,  mistress  of  death, 

shrieks,  shrieks  through  the  glen, 
And  that  place  of  the  lashing  is  live  with 

men, 

And  Maclean,  and  the  gillie  that  told  him, 
dash  up  in  a  desperate  race.  60 

Not  a  breath's  time  for  asking;  an  eye- 
glance  reveals  all  the  tale  untold. 
They  follow  mad  Hamish  afar  up  the 

crag  toward  the  sea, 
And  the  lady  cries:  '  Clansmen,  run  for 

a  fee! 

Yon  castle  and  lands  to  the  two  first  hands 
that  shall  hook  him  and  hold 

'  Fast  Hamish  back  from  the  brink  ! '  —  and 

ever  she  flies  up  the  steep, 
And  the  clansmen  pant,  and  they  sweat, 

and  they  jostle  and  strain. 
But,  mother,  'tis  vain;  but,  father,  't  is 

vain; 

Stern  Hamish  stands  bold  on  the  brink,  and 
dangles  the  child  o'er  the  deep. 

Now  a  faintness  falls  on  the  men  that  run, 

and  they  all  stand  still. 
And  the  wife  prays  Hamish  as  if  he  were 
God,  on  her  knees,  70 

Crying: •  Hamish  !  O  Hamish  !  but  please, 

but  please 

For  to  spare  him  ! '  and  Hamish  still  dangles 
the  child,  with  a  wavering  will. 

On  a  sudden  he  turns;  with  a  sea-hawk 

scream,  and  a  gibe,  and  a  song, 
Cries :  '  So ;  I  will  spare  ye  the  child  if,  in 

sight  of  ye  all, 
Ten  blows  on  Maclean's  bare  back  shall 

fall, 

And  ye  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow 
not  at  the  bite  of  the  thong  ! ' 

Then  Maclean  he  set  hardly  his  tooth  to  his 

lip  that  his  tooth  was  red, 
Breathed  short  for  a  space,  said:  'Nay, 
but  it  never,  shall  be  ! 


Let  me  hurl  off  the  damnable  hound  in 

the  sea  ! ' 

But  the  wife:  'Can  Hamish  go  fish  us  th< 
child  from  the  sea,  if  dead  ?  80 

'  Say  yea !  —  Let  them  lash  me,  Hamish  ? ' 

— '  Nay  ! '  — '  Husband,  the  lashing 

will  heal; 
But,  oh,  who  will  heal  me  the  bonnj 

sweet  bairn  in  his  grave  ? 
Could  ye   cure  me  my  heart  with  the 

death  of  a  knave  ? 
Quick  !    Love  !    I   will   bare   thee  —  so  — 

kneel ! '     Then  Maclean  'gan  slowly 

to  kneel 

With  never  a  word,  till  presently  down- 
ward he  jerked  to  the  earth. 
Then    the    henchman  —  he    that    smote 

Hamish  —  would  tremble  and  lag; 
'  Strike,  hard  ! '  quoth  Hamish,  full  stern, 

from  the  crag; 

Then  he  struck  him,  and  '  One !  '  sang 
Hamish,  and  danced  with  the  child 
in  his  mirth. 

And   no   man   spake   beside    Hamish;    he 

counted  each  stroke  with  a  song. 
When  the  last  stroke  fell,  then  he  moved 
him  a  pace  down  the  height,  90 

And  he  held  forth  the  child  in  the  heart- 
aching  sight 

Of  the  mother,  and  looked  all  pitiful  grave, 
as  repenting  a  wrong. 

And  there  as  the  motherly  arms  stretched 

out  with  the  thanksgiving  prayer  — 

And  there  as  the  mother  crept  up  with  a 

fearful  swift  pace, 
Till  her  finger  nigh  felt  of  the  bairnie's 

face  — 

In  a  flash  fierce  Hamish  turned  round  and 
lifted  the  child  in  the  air, 

And  sprang  with  the  child  in  his  arms  from 

the  horrible  height  in  the  sea, 
Shrill    screeching,   '  Revenge  ! '    in    the' 

wind-rush;  and  pallid  Maclean, 
Age-feeble  with  anger  and  impotent  pain, 
Crawled  up  on  the  crag,  and  lay  flat,  and 
locked  hold  of  dead  roots  of  a  tree, 

And  gazed  hungrily  o'er,  and  the  blood 
from  his  back  drip-dripped  in  the 
brine,  101 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   POETS 


And  a  sea-hawk  flung  down  a  skeleton 

fish  as  he  flew, 
And  the    mother  stared  white  on  the 

waste  of  blue, 
And  the  wind  drove  a  cloud  to  seaward, 

and  the  sun  began  to  shine. 
1878.  1878. 


HOW  LOVE  LOOKED  FOR  HELL1 

To  heal  his  heart  of  long-time  pain 
One  day  Prince   Love   for  to  travel  was 
fain 

With  Ministers  Mind  and  Sense. 
'  Now  what  to  thee  most  strange  may  be  ? ' 
Quoth  Mind  and  Sense.   '  All  things  above, 
One  curious  thing  I  first  would  see  — 

Hell,'  quoth  Love. 

Then  Mind  rode  in  and  Sense  rode  out: 
They  searched  the  ways  of  man  about. 

First  frightfully  groaneth  Sense.         10 
'  T  is  here,  't  is  here,'  and  spurreth  in  fear 
To  the  top  of  the  hill  that  hangeth  above 
And  plucketh  the   Prince :   '  Come,  come, 
't  is  here  — ' 

'  Where  ? '  quoth  Love  — 

'  Not  far,  not  far,'  said  shivering  Sense 
As  they  rode  on.    '  A  short  way  hence, 

—  But  seventy  paces  hence: 
Look,  King,  dost  see  where  suddenly 
This  road  doth  dip  from  the  height  above  ? 
Cold  blew  a  mouldy  wind  by  me  '  20 

('  Cold  ?  '  quoth  Love) 

*  As  I  rode  down,  and  the  River  was  black, 
And  yon-side,  lo  !  an  endless  wrack 

And  rabble  of  souls,'  sighed  Sense, 
'Their    eyes    upturned    and    begged    and 

burned 

In  brimstone  lakes,  and  a  Hand  above 
Beat     back      the      hands      that     upward 

yearned  — ' 
*  Nay  ! '  quoth  Love  — 

'  Yea,  yea,  sweet  Prince  ;  thyself  shalt  see, 
Wilt  thou  but  down  this  slope  with  me;    30 

'T  is  palpable,'  whispered  Sense. 
At  the  foot  of  the  hill  a  living  rill 
Shone,  and  the  lilies  shone  white  above; 

1  This  poem  is  quoted,  with  interesting  comment,  in 
Professor  Josiah  Royce's  Spirit  of  Modern  Philosophy. 
In  Lanier's  Poems  this  is  No.  iii  of  '  Street-Cries.' 


'But  now  'twas  black,  'twas  a  river,  this 

rill,' 
(<  Black  ?  '  quoth  Love) 

'  Ay,  black,  but  lo  !  the  lilies  grow, 
And  yon-side  where  was  woe,  was  woe, — 
Where    the    rabble    of    souls,'    cried 

Sense, 

'  Did  shrivel  and  turn  and  beg  and  burn, 
Thrust  back  in  the  brimstone  from  above  — 
:   Is  banked  of  violet,  rose,  and  fern: '  4I 

'  How  ?  '  quoth  Love: 

|   '  For  lakes  of  pain,  yon  pleasant  plain 
Of  woods  and  grass  and  yellow  grain 

Doth  ravish  the  soul  and  sense : 
And  never  a  sigh  beneath  the  sky, 
And  folk  that  smile  and  gaze  above '  — 
i   '  But    saw'st   thou   here,  with   thine   owr 

eye, 
Hell  ?  '  quoth  Love. 

\   '  I  saw  true  hell  with  mine  own  eye,          50 
True  hell,  or  light  hath  told  a  lie, 

True,  verily,'  quoth  stout  Sense. 
Then  Love  rode   round  and  searched  the 

ground, 

j   The  caves  below,  the  hills  above; 
'   '  But  I  cannot  find  where  thou  hast  found 
Hell,'  quoth  Love. 

There,  while  they  stood  in  a  green  wood 
And  marvelled  still  on  111  and  Good, 

Came  suddenly  Minister  Mind. 
'  In  the  heart  of  sin  doth  hell  begin:          6 
'T  is  not  below,  't  is  not  above, 
It  lieth  within,  it  lieth  within: ' 

('  Where  ?  '  quoth  Love) 

'  I  saw  a  man  sit  by  a  corse; 

Hell 's  in  the  murderer's  breast :  remorse  ! 

Thus  clamored  his  mind  to  his  mind: 
Not  fleshly  dole  is  the  sinner's  goal, 
Hell 's  not  below,  nor  yet  above, 
'T  is  fixed  in  the  ever-damned  soul '  — 

*  Fixed  ?  '  quoth  Love  —  ?c 

'Fixed:  follow  me,  would 'st  thou  but  see: 
He  weepeth  under  yon  willow  tree, 

Fast    chained    to    his     corse,'    quott 

Mind. 

Full  soon  they  passed,  for  they  rode  fast, 
Where  the  piteous  willow  bent  above. 
'  Now  shall  I  see  at  last,  at  last, 

Hell,'  quoth  Love. 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


627 


There    when    they    came    Mind    suffered 


'  These  be  the  same  and  not  the  same,' 

A-wondering  whispered  Mind.  80 

Lo,  face  by  face  two  spirits  pace 
Where  the  blissful  willow  waves  above: 
One  saith:  '  Do  me  a  friendly  grace  '  — 
('  Grace  !  '  quoth  Love) 

'  Read  me  two  Dreams  that  linger  long, 
Dim  c.s  returns  of  old-time  song 

That  nicker  about  the  mind. 
I  dreamed  (how  deep  in  mortal  sleep  ! ) 
I  struck  thee  dead,  then  stood  above, 
With  tears  that  none  but  dreamers  weep ; ' 

'  Dreams,'  quoth  Love ;  91 

;In  dreams,  again,  I  plucked  a  flower 
That  clung    with    pain   and    stung    with 
power, 

Yea,  nettled  me,  body  and  mind.' 
'  'T  was  the  nettle  of  sin,  't  was  medicine ; 
No  need  nor  seed  of  it  here  Above ; 
In  dreams  of  hate  true  loves  begin.' 

'  True,'  quoth  Love. 

'  Now  strange,'  quoth  Sense,  and  '  Strange,' 
quoth  Mind, 

'  We  saw  it,  and  yet 't  is  hard  to  find,      100 
—  But  we   saw  it,'  quoth  Sense  and 
Mind. 

Stretched      on    the     ground,      beautiful- 
crowned 

Of  the  piteous  willow  that  wreathed  above, 

'  But  I  cannot  find  where  ye  have  found 
Hell,'  quoth  Love.' 

1878-79.  1884. 


TO  BAYARD  TAYLOR  1 

To  range,  deep-wrapt,  along    a  heavenly 

height, 
O'erseeing    all    that    man    but    under- 

sees; 

To  loiter  down  lone  alleys  of  delight, 
And  hear  the  beating  of   the  hearts  of 


1  On  Lanier's  friendship  with  Bayard  Taylor,  see 
Professor  Mims's  Lanier  and  the  Letters  of  Sidney 
Lanier,  pp.  117-215. 

Lanier's  beautiful  picture  of  the  Elysium  of  the 
Poetg  should  be  compared  with  Richard  Hovey's,  in 
'  Seaward:  a  Threnody  on  the  Death  of  Thomas  "William 
Parsons.' 


And  think  the  thoughts  that  lilies  speak  ii 

white 
By  greenwood   pools  and  pleasant  pas 


With  healthy  dreams  a-dream  in  flesh  and 

soul, 

To  pace,  in  mighty  meditations  drawn, 
From  out  the  forest  to  the  open  knoll 
Where  much   thyme  is,  whence  blissful 
leagues  of  lawn  10 

Betwixt  the  fringing  woods  to  southward 

roll 
By  tender  inclinations ;    mad  with  dawn, 

Ablaze  with  fires  that  flame  in  silver  dew 
When  each  small   globe   doth  glass  the 

morning-star, 
Long  ere  the    sun,   sweet-smitten  through 

and  through 

With  dappled  revelations  read  afar, 
Suffused  with  saintly  ecstasies  of  blue 
As  all  the  holy  eastern  heavens  are,  — 

To  fare  thus  fervid  to  what  daily  toil 

Employs  thy  spirit  in  that  larger  Land  20 
Where  thou  art  gone ;  to  strive,  but  not  to 

moil 

In  nothings  that  do  mar  the  artist's  hand, 
Not  drudge  unriched,  as  grain  rots  back  to 

soil,— 

No  profit  out  of  death,  —  going,  yet  still 
at  stand,  — 

Giving  what  life  is  here  in  hand  to-day 
For  that  that 's  in  to-morrow's  bush,  per- 
chance, — 

Of  this  year's  harvest  none  in  the  barn  to  lay, 
All  sowed  for  next  year's  crop,  —  a  dull 

advance 

In  curves  that  come  but  by  another  way 
Back  to  the  start,  —  a  thriftless  thrift  of 
ants  30 

Whose  winter  wastes  their  summer;  O  my 

Friend, 

Freely  to  range,  to  muse,  to  toil,  is  thine: 
Thine,  now,  to  watch  with  Homer  sails  that 

bend 
Unstained  by  Helen's   beauty  o'er  the 

brine 
Tow'rds  some  clean  Troy  no  Hector  need 

defend 

Nor   flame   devour ;    or,   in   some   mild 
moon's  shine, 


628 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Where  amiabler  winds  the  whistle  heed, 

To  sail  with  Shelley  o'er  a  bluer  sea, 
And  mark  Prometheus,  from   his  fetters 

freed, 

Pass  with  Deucalion  over  Italy,  40 

While  bursts  the  flame  from  out  his  eager 

reed 

Wild-stretching    towards    the    West   of 
destiny ; 

Or,  prone    with    Plato,    Shakspere,  and   a 

throng 
Of  bards  beneath  some  plane-tree's  cool 

eclipse 
To  gaze  on  glowing  meads  where,  lingering 

long, 

Psyche's  large  Butterfly  her  honey  sips; 
Or,   mingling    free    in  choirs  of   German 

song, 

To  learn  of  Goethe's  life  from  Goethe's 
lips; 

These,  these  are  thine,  and  we,  who  still  are 

dead, 

Do  yearn  —  nay,  not  to  kill  thee  back 
again  50 

Into  this  charnel  life,  this  lowlihead, 

Not  to  the  dark  of  sense,  the  blinking 

brain, 

The  hugged  delusion  drear,  the  hunger  fed 
On  husks  of  guess,  the  monarchy  of  pain, 

The  cross  of  love,  the  wrench  of  faith,  the 

shame 
Of  science  that  cannot  prove  proof  is,  the 

twist 
Of  blame  for  praise  and  bitter  praise  for 

blame, 
The    silly  stake   and  tether  round  the 

wrist 

By  fashion  fixed,  the  virtue  that  doth  claim 

The  gains  of  vice,  the  lofty  mark  that 's 

missed  60 

By  all  the  mortal  space  'twixt  heaven  and 

hell, 
The  soul's   sad   growth   o'er   stationary 

friends 
Who  hear  us  from  our  height  not  well,  not 

well, 

The  slant  of  accident,  the  sudden  bends 
Of  purpose  tempered  strong,  the  gambler's 

spell, 

The  son's   disgrace,  the  plan  that  e'er 
depends 


On    others'  plots,  the  tricks   that  passion 

plays 

(1  loving  you,  you  him,  he  none  at  all), 
The  artist's  pain  —  to  walk  his  blood-stained 

ways, 

A  special  soul,  yet  judged  as  general  — 
The  endless  grief  of  art,  the   sneer  that 
slays,  7i 

The  war,  the  wound,  the  groan,  the  fu- 
neral pall  — 

Not  into  these,  bright  spirit,  do  we  yearn 
To  bring  thee  back,  but  oh,  to  be,  to  be 
Unbound  of  all  these  gyves,  to  stretch,  to 

spurn 
The  dark  from  off  our  dolorous  lids,  to 

see 
Our  spark,  Conjecture,  blaze  and  sunwise 

burn, 
And  suddenly  to  stand  again  by  thee  ! 

Ah,  not  for  us,  not  yet,  by  thee  to  stand: 
For  us,  the  fret,  the  dark,  the  thorn,  the 
chill;  80 

For  us,  to  call  across  unto  thy  Land, 

'  Friend,  get  thee  to  the  minstrels'  holy 

hill, 
And  kiss  those  brethren  for  us,  mouth  and 

hand, 

And  make  our  duty  to  our  master  Will.' 
1879.  1879. 


MARSH    SONG  — AT    SUNSET 

OVER  the  monstrous  shambling  sea, 

Over  the  Caliban  sea, 
Bright  Ariel-cloud,  thou  lingerest: 
Oh  wait,  oh  wait,  in  the  warm  red  West,  — 

Thy  Prospero  I  '11  be. 

Over  the  humped  and  fishy  sea, 

Over  the  Caliban  sea 
O  cloud  in  the  West,  like  a  thought  in  the 

heart 
Of  pardon,  loose  thy  wing,  and  start, 

And  do  a  grace  for  me. 

Over  the  huge  and  huddling  sea, 

Over  the  Caliban  sea, 

Bring  hither  my  brother  Antonio,  — Man, — 
My  injurer:  night  breaks  the  ban: 

Brother,  I  pardon  thee. 
1879-80.  1882. 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


629 


SUNRISE  i 

IN  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship, 

fain 
Of    the    live-oak,    the    marsh,    and   the 

main. 
The  little  green  leaves  would  not  let  me 

alone  in  my  sleep; 
Up-breathed  from  the  marshes,  a  message 

of  range  and  of  sweep, 
Interwoven   with    waftures   of   wild    sea- 
liberties,  drifting, 
Came  through  the  lapped  leaves  sifting, 

sifting, 

Came  to  the  gates  of  sleep. 
Then   my   thoughts,   in  the    dark   of   the 

dungeon-keep 
Of  the  Castle  of  Captives  hid  in  the  City 

of  Sleep, 

Upstarted,  by  twos  and  by  threes  assem- 
bling: 10 
The  gates  of  sleep  fell  a-trembling 
Like  as  the  lips  of  a  lady  that  forth  falter 

yes, 

Shaken  with  happiness: 
The  gates  of  sleep  stood  wide. 

i  have  waked,  I  have  come,  my  beloved  ! 

I  might  not  abide : 
1  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  O  beloved,  my 

live-oaks,  to  hide 

In  your  gospelling  glooms,  —  to  be 
As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh  my  marsh 

and  the  sea  my  sea. 

Tell  me,  sweet  burly-bark'd,  man-bodied 
Tree 

That  mine  arms  in  the  dark  are  embracing, 
dost  know  20 

From  what  fount  are  these  tears  at  thy  feet 
which  flow  ? 

They  rise  not  from  reason,  but  deeper  in- 
consequent deeps. 

Reason  's  not  one  that  weeps. 
What  logic  of  greeting  lies 

1  '  Sunrise,'  Mr.  Lanier's  latest  completed  poem,  was 
written  while  his  sun  of  life  seemed  fairly  at  the  set- 
ting, and  the  hand  which  first  pencilled  its  lines  had 
not  strength  to  carry  nourishment  to  the  lips.  .  .  . 

'  Sunrise,'  the  culminating  poem,  the  highest  vision 
of  Sidney  Lanier,  was  dedicated  through  his  latest  re- 
quest to  that  friend  who  indeed  came  into  his  life  only 
near  its  close,  yet  was  at  first  meeting  recognized  by 
the  poet  as  '  the  father  of  his  spirit,'  George  Westfeldt. 
When  words  were  very  few  and  the  poem  was  unread, 
even  by  any  friend,  the  earnest  bidding  came  :  '  Send 
kim  my  "  Sunrise,"  that  he  may  know  how  entirely  we 
are  one  in  thought.'  (Poems,  1884.) 


Betwixt  dear  over-beautiful  trees  and  the 
rain  of  the  eyes  ? 

O  cunning  green  leaves,  little  masters  !  like 

as  ye  gloss 
All  the  dull-tissued  dark  with  your  lumi 

nous  darks  that  emboss 
The  vague  blackness  of  night  into  pattern, 
and  plan, 

So 

(But  would  I  could  know,  but  would  I 

could  know),  30 

With  your  question  embroid'ring  the  dark 

of  the  question  of  man,  — 
So,  with  your  silences  purfling  this  silence 

of  man 

While  his  cry  to  the  dead  for  some  know- 
ledge is  under  the  ban, 

Under  the  ban,  — 
So,  ye  have  wrought  me 
Designs  on  the  night  of  our  knowledge,  — 
yea,  ye  have  taught  me, 

So, 

That   haply  we   know   somewhat   more 
than  we  know. 

Ye  lispers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms, 
Ye  consciences  murmuring  faiths  un- 
der forms,  40 
Yi   ministers   meet  for  each  pas:  ion 

that  grieves, 

Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that 

contain  me 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain 

me,— 

Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet 
That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring,  — 

repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that  swiftly  but  now 

brought  breath 
From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river  o 

death, — 
Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence,  —  preach 

me 

The  passion  of  patience,  —  sift  me,  —  im- 
peach me,  —  50 

And  there,  oh  there 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  up- 
turned in  the  air, 

Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 

My  gossip,  the  owl,  —  is  it  thou 
That  out  of  the  leaves  of  the  low-hanging 
bough, 


630 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


As  I  pass  to  the  beach,  art  stirred  ? 
Dumb  woods,  have  ye  uttered  a  bird  ? 


Reverend  Marsh,  low-couched  along  the  sea, 
Old  chemist,  rapt  in  alchemy, 

Distilling  silence,  —  lo,  60 

That   which   our   father-age   had   died   to 

know  — 
The  menstruum  that  dissolves  all  matter 

—  thou 

Hast  found  it:  for  this  silence,  filling  now 
The  globed  clarity  of  receiving  space, 
This  solves  us  all:  man,  matter,  doubt,  dis- 
grace, 

Death,  love,  sin,  sanity, 
Must  in  yon  silence'  clear  solution  lie. 
Too  clear  !    That  crystal   nothing  who  '11 

peruse  ? 
The  blackest  night  could  bring  us  brighter 

news. 

Yet  precious  qualities  of  silence  haunt      70 
Round  these  vast  margins,  ministrant. 
Oh,  if  thy  soul 's  at  latter  gasp  for  space, 
With  trying  to  breathe  no  bigger  than  thy 

race 
Just  to  be  fellow'd,  when  that  thou   hast 

found 
No  man  with  room,  or  grace   enough  of 

bound 
To  entertain  that  New  thou   tell'st,  thou 

art,— 
T  is  here,  't  is  here  thou  canst  unhand  thy 

heart 

And  breathe  it  free,  and  breathe  it  free, 
By  rangy  marsh,  in  lone  sea-liberty. 

The  tide  's  at  full:  the  marsh  with  flooded 
streams  80 

Glimmers,  a  limpid  labyrinth  of  dreams. 
Each  winding  creek  in  grave  entrancement 

lies 

A  rhapsody  of  morning-stars.    The  skies 
Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy,  — 
The  marsh  brags  ten:  looped  on  his  breast 
they  lie. 

Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made  ! 

Oh,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 

To  this  bow-and-string  tension  of  beauty 
and  silence  a-spring,  — 

To  the  bend  of  beauty  the  bow,  or  the  hold 
of  silence  the  string  ! 

I  fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diapha- 
nous gleam  90 


Will  break   as  a  bubble  o'er-blown   in  a 

dream,  — 
Yon  dome  of  too-tenuous  tissues   of  space 

and  of  night, 
Over-weighted  with   stars,   over-freighted 

with  light, 
Over-sated  with   beauty  and   silence,  will 

seem 

But  a  bubble  that  broke  in  a  dream, 
If   a   bound   of   degree   to   this   grace   be 

laid, 
Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made. 

But  no:   it   is  made:   list!    somewhere, — 

mystery,  where  ? 

In  the  leaves  ?  in  the  air  ? 
In  my  heart  ?  is  a  motion  made :  100 

'T  is  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  flicker  of 

shade  on  shade. 

In  the  leaves  't  is  palpable :  low  multitu- 
dinous stirring 
Upwinds  through  the  woods;  the  little  ones, 

softly  conferring, 
Have  settled  my  lord's  to  be  looked  for; 

so;  they  are  still; 
But  the  air  and  my  heart  and  the  earth  are 

a-thrill,  — 
And  look  where  the  wild  duck  sails  round 

the  bend  of  the  river,  — 
And  look  where  a  passionate  shiver 
Expectant  is  bending  the  blades 
Of  the  marsh-grass  in  serial  shimmers  and 


And    invisible    wings,    fast    fleeting,    fast 
fleeting,  1 10 

Are  beating 
The  dark  overhead  as  my  heart  beats,  — 

and  steady  and  free 

Is  the  ebb-tide  flowing  from  marsh  to  sea 
(Run  home,  little  streams, 
With  your  lapfulls  of  stars  and  dreams), 
And  a  sailor  unseen  is  hoisting  a-peak, 
For  list,  down  the  inshore  curve  of  the  creek 

How  merrily  flutters  the  sail,  — 
And  lo,  in  the  East !  Will  the  East  unveil? 
The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  con- 
fessed .        120 
A  flush:  't  is  dead;  'tis  alive:  't  is  dead,  ere 

the  West 
Was  aware  of  it:  nay,  'tis  abiding,  'tis  un- 

withdrawn : 
Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven  !   'T  is  Dawn. 

Now  a  dream  of  a  flame  through  that  dream 
of  a  flush  is  uprolled' 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


63' 


To  the  zeiiith  ascending,  a  dome  of  un- 

dazzling  gold 
Is  builded,  in  shape  as  a  bee-hive,  from  out 

of  the  sea: 
The  hive  is  of  gold  undazzling,  but  oh,  the 

Bee, 

The  star-fed  Bee,  the  build-fire  Bee, 
Of    dazzling    gold    is    the   great    Sun- 
Bee 

That  shall  flash  from  the  hive-hole  over  the 
sea.  130 

Yet  now  the  dew-drop,  now  the  morning 

gra7» 

Shall  live  their  little  lucid  sober  day 
Ere  with  the   sun  their   souls  exhale 

away. 
Now   in   each   pettiest  personal  sphere  of 

dew 
The  summ'd  morn  shines  complete  as   in 

the  blue 
Big  dew-drop  of  all  heaven:  with  these  lit 

shrines 

O'er-silvered  to  the  farthest  sea-confines, 
The  sacramental  marsh  one  pious  plain 
Of  worship  lies.    Peace  to  the  ante-reign 
Of  Mary  Morning,  blissful  mother  mild,  I4o 
Minded    of  nought  but  peace,   and  of  a 

child. 

Not  slower  than  Majesty  moves,  for  a  mean 
and  a  measure 

Of  motion,  —  not  faster  than  dateless  Olym- 
pian leisure 

Might  pace  with  unblown  ample  garments 
from  pleasure  to  pleasure,  — 

The  wave-serrate  sea-rim  sinks  unjarring, 

unreeling, 
Forever   revealing,   revealing,  reveal- 

mg> 
Edgewise,  bladewise,  halfwise,  wholewise, 

—  't  is  done  ! 

Good-morrow,  lord  Sun  ! 
With  several  voice,  with  ascription  one, 
The  woods  and  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and 

my  soul  150 

Unto  tbee,  whence  the  glittering  stream  of 

all  morrows  doth  roll, 
Cry  good  and  past-good  and  most  heavenly 

morrow,  lord  Sun. 

O  Artisan  born  in  the  purple,  —  Workman 

Heat,  — 
Parter  of  passionate  atoms  that  travail  to 

meet 


And  be  mixed  in  the  death-cold  oneness,  — 
innermost  Guest 

At  the   marriage  of  elements, — fellow  of 
publicans,  —  blest 

King  in  the  blouse  of  flame,  that  loiterest 
o'er 

The    idle    skies    yet    laborest    fast    ever- 
more, — 

Thou,  in  the  fine  forge-thunder,  thou,  in  the 
beat 

Of  the  heart  of   a   man,  thou  Motive, — 
Laborer  Heat:  160 

Yea,  Artist,  thou,  of  whose  art  yon  sea  's  all 
news, 

With  his  inshore  greens  and  manifold  mid- 
sea  blues, 

Pearl-glint,  shell-tint,  ancientest  perfectest 
hues 

Ever  shaming  the  maidens,  —  lily  and  rose 

Confess   thee,   and   each   mild   flame  that 
glows 

In  the  clarified  virginal  bosoms  of  stones 
that  shine, 

It  is  thine,  it  is  thine: 

Thou  chemist  of  storms,  whether  driving 

the  winds  a-swirl 
Or  a-flicker  the  subtiler  essences  polar  that 

whirl 
In  the  magnet  earth,  —  yea,  thou   with  a 

storm  for  a  heart,  170 

Rent  with  debate,  many-spotted  with  ques- 
tion, part 
From  part  oft  sundered,  yet  ever  a  globed 

light, 
Yet  ever  the  artist,  ever  more  large  and 

bright 
Than  the   eye  of  a  man  may  avail  of:  — 

manifold  One, 
I  must   pass  from   thy  face,  I  must  pass 

from  the  face  of  the  Sun: 
Old  Want  is  awake  and  agog,  every  wrinkle 

a-frown; 
The  worker  must  pass  to  his  work  in  the 

terrible  town: 
But  I  fear  not,  nay,  and  I  fear  not  the  thing 

to  be  done; 
I  am  strong  with  the  strength  of  my  lord 

the  Sun: 
How  dark,  how  dark  soever  the  race  that 

must  needs  be  run,  i8« 

I  am  lit  with  the  Sun. 

Oh,  never  the  mast-high  run  of  the  seas 
Of  traffic  shall  hide  thee, 


CHIEF   AMERICAN   POETS 


Never  the  hell-colored  smoke  of  the  fac- 
tories 

Hide  thee, 
Never  the  reek  of  the  time's  fen-politics 

Hide  thee, 

And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall 
with  knowledge  abide  thee, 


And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one 

that  hath  tried  thee, 

Labor,  at   leisure,  in   art,  —  till  yonder 
beside  thee  J90 

My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 

The  day  being  done. 
December,  1880.  1882. 


LIST   OF   REFERENCES 


LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

BRYANT 


*THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS  OF  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT,  6  volumes :  vols.  i  and  ii,  Biography ; 
vols.  iii  and  iv,  The  Poetical  Works ;  vols.  v  and  vi,  Prose  Writings :  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  1883- 
84.  (The  standard  edition,  edited  by  Parke  Godwin.)  — *THE  POETICAL  WORKS,  Roslyn  Edi- 
tion: D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  1903.  (An  excellent  edition,  complete  — except  the  translations  from 
Homer  —  in  one  volume  ;  with  chronologies,  bibliography,  etc.)  —  THE  ILIAD  OF  HOMER,  trans- 
lated into  English  Blank  Verse  ;  THE  ODYSSEY  OF  HOMER,  translated  into  English  Blank  Verse  : 
Roslyn  Editioii,  4  volumes ;  Students'  Edition,  2  volumes  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

BIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES 

*GoowiN  (Parke),  Biography  of  William  Cullen  Bryant,  with  extracts  from  his  private  cor- 
respondence, 1883.  (The  standard  biography.)  —  *BiGELOW  (John),  William  Cullen  Bryant 
(American  Men  of  Letters  Series),  1890.  —  *BRADLEY  (W.  A.),  Bryant  (English  Men  of  Letters 
Series),  1905. 

BARTLETT  (D.  W.),  Modern  Agitators,  or  Pen  Portraits  of  Living  American  Reformers,  1855. 

—  BROWN  (E.  R.),  The  Life  and  Poems  of  John  Howard  Bryant,  1899.    (Containing  in  the  bio- 
graphical sketch  many  allusions  to  William  Cullen  Bryant  also.)  —  BUNGAY  (George  W.),  Off- 
Hand  Takings ;  or  Crayon  Sketches  of  the  Noticeable  Men  of  our  Age :  Biography  of  Bryant, 
1854.  — *CENTURY  ASSOCIATION  (N.  Y.),  The  Bryant  Festival  at  'The  Century,'  Nov.  5,  1864. 
(An  account  of  the  celebration  of  Bryant's  seventieth  birthday,  containing  Lowell's  poem  On 
Board  the  Seventy-Six,  poems  by  Holmes,  Whittier,  Bayard  Taylor,  George  H.  Boker,  Thomas 
Buchanan  Read,  Julia  Ward  Howe,  R.  H.  Stoddard,  H.  T.  Tuckerman,  etc.,  and  addresses  by 
Emerson,  Bancroft,  Samuel  Osgood,  etc.),  1865.  —  CENTURY  ASSOCIATION  (N.  Y.),  Bryant  Me- 
morial Meeting  of  the  Century,  Nov.  12,  1878.    (Containing  Stedman's  The  Death  of  Bryant, 
Bayard  Taylor's  Epicedium,  R.  H.  Stoddard's  The  Dead  Master,  and  an  oration  by  John  Big- 
elow.) — CUMMINGTON,  Mass.,  Bryant  Centennial  Celebration.    (Containing  addresses  by  Parke 
Godwin,  E.  R.  Brown,  John  Bigelow,  Charles  Dudley  Warner,  John  White  Chadwick,  Charles 
Eliot  Norton,  G.  Stanley  Hall,  etc.,  and  poems  by  Julia  Ward  Howe  and  John  H.  Bryant),  1894. 

—  *CuRTis  (G.  W.),  Orations  and  Addresses,  vol.  iii :  William  Cullen  Bryant:   His  Life,  Char- 
acter, and  Writings.    A  Commemorative  Address,  Dec.  30,  1878.  — DERBY  (J.  C-),  Fifty  Years 
among  Authors,  1884.  — FINLEY  (John  H.)  and  CALKINS  (E.  E.),  The  Bryant  Centennial;  a 
Book  about  a  Day,  Galesburg,  1894. —  GODWIN  (Parke),  Commemorative  Addresses.  —  GREER 
(F.  H.),  William  Cullen  Bryant,  in  Universal  Biography  of  Men  of  Mark  of  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury.—  HAWTHORNE,  Passages  from  French  and  Italian  Note-Books:  May  22,  1858.  —  HILL 
(D.  J.),  William  Cullen  Bryant  (American  Authors),  1879.  —  KIRKLAND  (Mrs.  C.),  William  Cul- 
len Bryant :  in  Homes  of  American  Authors,  1853  ;  the  same,  in  Little  Journeys  to  the  Homes  of 
American  Authors,   1896.  — PALMER   (Ray),  Biography  of  Bryant,  1877.  — POWERS  (H.  N.), 
William  Cullen  Bryant :  in  R.  H.  Stoddard's  The  Homes  and  Haunts  of  our  Elder  Poets.  —  SYM- 
INGTON (A.  J.),  William  Cullen  Bryant,  a  biographical  sketch,  with  selections.  1880.  —  TAYLOR 
(Mrs.  Bayard),  On  Two  Continents,' 1905.  —  TUCKERMAN  (H.  T.),  Thoughts  on  the  Poets,  1846. 

—  WALSH  (William  Shepard),  Pen  Pictures  of  Modern  Authors,  1882.    (Quotations  from  Haw- 
thorne, John  Bigelcw,  etc.)  —  WHITMAN,  Specimen  Days,  June  13-14,  1878:  Death  of  William 
Cullen  Bryant.  (Complete  Prose  Works,  pp  106-107.)—  WILSON  (J.  G.),  Bryant  and  his  Friends  : 
some  reminiscences  of  the  Knickerbocker  writers,  1885.  —  *(The  Diary  of  a  Poet's  Mother,  a 

1  The  more  important  books  and  essays  are  marked  with  an  asterisk.  For  explanations  regarding  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  Reference-Lasts,  see  Preface. 


636  LIST  OF   REFERENCES 

daily  record  kept  by  Mrs.  Bryant  for  fifty-three  years,  is  announced  for  early  publication ;  it  is 
to  be  edited  by  Professor  Richard  Jones.) 

.       CRITICISM 

ALDEN  (Joseph),  Studies  in  Bryant,  with  an  introduction  by  William  Cullen  Bryant.  (An  ele 
mentary  school  text,  with  questions  on  the  poems.)  —  BUKTON  (R.),  Literary  Leaders.  —  CHENE\ 
<J.  V.),  That  Dome  in  Air.  —  *COLLINS  (Churton),  The  Poetry  and  Poets  of  America.  —  HAR- 
TUNG  (A.  E.  G.),  Ueber  Robert  Burns  poetische  Episteln  und  iiber  den  nordamerikanischen  Dich- 
ter  William  Cullen  Bryant.  — HOWE  (M.  A.  DeW.),  American  Bookmen.  —  MATTHEWS  (B.), 
Introduction  to  the  Study  of  American  Literature,  chapter  vi. —  MITCHELL  (D.  G.),  American 
Lands  and  Letters.  —  NADAL  (E.  S.),  Essays  at  Home  and  Elsewhere.  —  NEWCOMER  (A.  G.), 
American  Literature.  —  NICHOL  (John),  American  Literature,  an  Historical  Sketch.  —  OSGOOD 
<Rev.  Samuel),  Bryant  among  his  Countrymen:  The  Poet,  the  Patriot,  the  Man.  — OTTO  (W.), 
William  Cullen  Bryants  poetische  Werke  und  Uebersetzungen. — PALMER  (G.  H.),  William 
Cullen  Bryant :  in  Atlas  Essays,  New  York,  1877.  —  PATTEE  (Fred  Lewis),  History  of  Amer- 
ican Literature. — POE  (Edgar  Allan),  Works,  Virginia  Edition:  vol.  viii,  pp.  1,  2,  Poems,  by 
William  Cullen  Bryant  (January,  1835) ;  vol.  ix,  pp.  268-305,  Poems,  by  William  Cullen  Bryant, 
Fourth  Edition  (June,  1837) ;  vol.  x,  pp.  85-96,  A  Notice  of  William  Cullen  Bryant  (May,  1840) ; 
vol.  xiii,  pp.  125-141,  William  Cullen  Bryant  (April,  1846).  — See  also  vol.  xi,  pp.  150, 194, 195, 
223. —POET- LORE,  How  to  Study  Bryant's  Thanatopsis,  in  Poet-Lore,  vol.  vi,  pp.  520-526.— 
POWELL  (Thomas),  Living  Authors  of  America,  1850.  —  RICHARDSON  (C.  F.),  American  Lit- 
erature, vol.  ii.  —  SAUNDERS  (Frederic),  -Character  Studies.  —  SHEPARD  (W.  S.),  The  Literary 
Life.  —  *STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Poets  of  America.  —  STEWART  (George,  Jr.),  Evenings  in  the  Library. 

—  STODDARD   (R.   H.),  Introduction   to  the   'Household'  and  'Roslyn'   editions. — TAYLOK 
(Bayard),  Critical  Essays  and  Literary  Notes.—  THAYER  (W.  R.),  Throne-makers  and  Portraits. 

—  TRENT  (W.  P.),  A  History  of  American  Literature.  —  VINCENT  (L.  H.),  American  Literary 
Masters,  1905.  —  WHIPPLE  (E.  P.),  Literature  and  Lif e.  —  WHIPPLE  (E.  P.),  Men  of  Mark.— 
*WHITMAN,  Specimen  Days,  April  16, 1881 :  My  Tribute  to  Four  Poets.    (Complete  Prose  Works, 
pp.  173,  174.)  —  WILKINSON  (W.  C.),  A  Free  Lance  in  the  Field  of  Life  and  Letters:  Mr. 
Bryant's  Poetry.  — WILSON  (John),  Essays,  critical  and  imaginative  :  American  Poetry,  Bryant. 
(Originally  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  1832  ;  vol.  xxxi,  pp.  64(5-664.    A  generous  early  apprecia- 
tion of  Bryant.)  — WOODBERRY  (G.  E.),  America  in  Literature,  chapter  ii. 

TRIBUTES 'iN   VERSE 

BATES  (Charlotte  Fiske),  Risk  and  Other  Poems  :  The  Poet's  Birthplace  ;  The  Poet's  Death  ; 
The  Birthday  after  Death.  —  BOKER  (G.  H.),  Bryant,  Nov.  5,  1864.— *CHADWICK  (J.  W.),  Later 
Poems,  William  Cullen  Bryant :  Read  on  the  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  his  Birth.  —  HAYNK 
(Paul  H.),  Bryant  Dead.  —  *HOLMES,  Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday.  —  HOWE  (Julia  Ward), 
A  Leaf  from  the  Bryant  Chaplet. — *LowELL,  Fable  for  Critics.  (Poetical  Works,  Cambridge 
Edition,  pp.  131,  132.)— *LowELL,  On  Board  the  Seventy-six.  —  READ  (T.  B.),  To  Bryant  — 
STEDMAN,  The  Death  of  Bryant. — *STODDARD  (R.  H.),  Vates  Patriae.  —  TAYLOR  (B'ayard), 
Epicedium,  William  Cullen  Bryant.— TUCKERMAN  (H.  T.),  To  William  Cnllen  Bryant  on  his 
Seventieth  Birthday.—  WHITTIER,  To  a  Poetical  Trio  in  the  City  of  Gotham.  (Satirical.  Written 
in  1832.  Poetical  Works,  Cambridge  Edition,  p.  510. )  —  *WHITTIER,  Bryant  on  his  Birth- 
day, 1864. 

POE 

EDITIONS 

*COMPLETE  WORKS,  Virginia  Edition,  17  volumes  (including  Biography  and  Letters),  edited 
by  James  A.  Harrison  :  T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.,  1902.  (The  standard  edition,  superseding  all  others, 
both  by  its  completeness  —  especially  in  the  section  of  criticism  —  and  by  its  carefully  edited  text.) 

—  WORKS,  4  volumes,  edited,  with  a  memoir,  by  R.  W.  Griswold,  and  with  notices  of  Poe's  life 
and  genius  by  N.  P.  Willis  and  J.  R.  Lowell,  New  York,  1850-56,  etc.     (Badly  arranged  and 
unreliable.     The  Memoir  in  particular  is  not  to  be  trusted.)  —  WORKS,  4  volumes,  edited  by 
John  H.  Ingram.  Edinburgh,  1874-75,  etc.    (The  best  British  edition.) — WORKS,  6  volumes, 
edited,  with  memoir,  by  R.   H.  Stoddard :  New  York,  A.  C.  Armstrong  &  Son,  1884.     (The 


POE  637 

memoir  is  unsatisfactory.)  —  *WoRKS,  10  volumes,  edited,  with  a  memoir,  critical  introductions, 
and  notes,    by  E.   C.  Stedman  and  G.   E.  Woodberry:    Stone  &  Kimball,  Chicago,   1894-95. 

—  WORKS,  1U  volumes,  Knickerbocker  Edition,  with  introduction  by  Charles  F.  Richardson :  G. 
P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York,  1904. 

THE  RAVEN  AND  OTHER  POEMS  :  Wiley  &  Putnam,  New  York,  1845.  —  POETICAL  WORKS, 
with  a  notice  of  his  life  and  genius,  by  James  Hannay,  London,  1852,  etc.  —  POETICAL  WORKS, 
with  memoir  by  C.  F.  Briggs,  London  and  New  York,  1858,  etc.  —  POEMS,  with  memoir  by 
R.  H.  Stoddard,  New  York,  1872,  etc.  —  POKMS,  with  an  essay  on  his  poetry  by  Andrew  Lang, 
London,  1881,  etc. — POEMS  AND  ESSAYS,  edited,  with  memoir,  by  John  H.  Ingram.  London, 
1884.  — POETICAL  WORKS,  Canterbury  Poets'  Edition,  London,  1886.  — THE  RAVEN,  THE  FALL 
OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER,  AND  OTHER  POEMS  AND  TALES,  edited  by  W.  P.  Trent,  Riverside 
Literature  Series,  1897. —  THE  BEST  POEMS  AND  ESSAYS  OF  POE,  edited,  with  a  new  biograph- 
ical and  critical  study,  by  Sherwin  Cody,  1903.  —  POEMS,  edited  by  Charles  W.  Kent,  Mac- 
millan's  Pocket  Classics,  1904.  —  (There  are  many  other  one-volume  editions  of  the  poems,  none 
of  them  to  be  fully  trusted.  Most  of  them  follow  the  bad  arrangement  of  the  1845  edition.) 

BIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES 

See  the  Griswold,  Hannay,  Briggs,  Ingram,  Stoddard,  Stedman- Woodberry,  Lang,  Richard- 
son, Cody,  and  Kent  editions  mentioned  above. 

*HARRISON  (J.  A.),  Life  and  Letters  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  2  volumes,  1903.  (Also  as  vol.  i 
and  vol.  xvii  of  the  Virginia  Edition  of  Poe's  Works.)  (The  latest  full  biography.  More  than 
half  of  the  Letters  are  here  published  for  the  first  time.)  —  DIDIER  (E.  L.),  The  Life  and  Poems 
of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  1876.  — INGRAM  (John  H.),  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  in  Atlas  Essays,  no.  2,  1877. 

—  GILL  (W.  F.),  Life  of  Poe,  London,  1878.  —  INGRAM  (John  H.),  Edgar  Allan  Poe  :  His  Life, 
Letters  and  Opinions.     2  volumes,  London,  1880 ;  second  edition,  1  volume,  1886.     (This  bio- 
graphy is  perhaps  the  fairest  and  best-balanced  in  its  judgment  of  Poe,  but  is  now  somewhat  out 
of  date.     In  the  second  edition  no  account  was  taken  of  new  facts  brought  out  by  Prof.  Wood- 
berry.)  —  *WOODBERRY  (G.  E.),  Edgar  Allan  Poe  (American  Men  of  Letters  Series),  1885.     (The 
first  life  of  Poe  based  on  thorough  investigation  of  the  facts  ;  and  still  the  best  critically  ;  but 
unsympathetic.)  —  LAUVRIERE  (E.).  Edgar  Poe,  sa  vie  et  son  ceuvre,  1904.    (A  thorough  study  ; 
emphasizing  pathological  considerations.) — *TRENT  (W.  P.),  Edgar  Allan  Poe.     (Soon  to  be 
published,  in  the  English  Men  of  Letters  Series  ;  and  likely  to  prove  the  best  brief  biography.) 

BENTON  (Joel),  In  the  Poe  Circle ;  with  some  account  of  the  Poe-Chivers  controversy,  and 
other  Poe  memorabilia,  1899.  —  DARGAN  (Olive  T.),  Semiramis  and  Other  Plays,  1904.  "(The 
third  play,  '  The  Poet,'  deals  with  Poe.)  —  GILDERSLEEVE  (B.  L.),  Poe  as  a  Lecturer  :  in  Harri- 
son's New  Glimpses  of  Poe.  —  GRISWOLD  (R.  W.),  Correspondence.  —  HARRISON  (J.  A.),  New 
Glimpses  of  Poe,  1901.  —KENT  (Charles  W.),  The  Unveiling  of  the  Bust  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
in  the  Library  of  the  University  of  Virginia,  October  7,  1899 ;  being  an  account  of  Poe's  con- 
nection with  the  University  of  Virginia,  etc.  —  MINOR  (B.  B.),  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
1834  to  1863,  1905.  —  MORAN  (John  J.),  A  Defense  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  1885.  —  RICE  (Sara 
S.),  Edgar  Allan  Poe  :  A  Memorial  Volume,  1877.  — STODDARD  (R.  H.).  Recollections,  Personal 
and  Literary,  edited  by  Ripley  Hitchcock,  1904.  —  WALSH  (William  Shepard),  The  Literary 
Life  :  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  —  WEISS  (Susan  A.  T.),  The  Last  Days  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  :  in 
Scribner's,  March,  1878.  — WEISS  (Susan  A.  T.),  Reminiscences  of  Poe  :  in  the  Independent,  May 
Sand  August  25,  1904:  vol.  Ivi,  p.  1010;  vol.  Ivii.  p.  443.  — *WHITMAN  (Sarah  Helen),  Poe 
and  his  Critics,  1860;  second  edition,  1885. —WHITMAN  (Walt),  Specimen  Days:  Broadway 
Sights  (Prose  Works,  p.  12.)  —  *WiLLis  (N.  P.),  Hurrygraphs,  1851.  (Also  in  Gris wold's  and 
other  editions  of  Poe's  Works.)  —  WILSON  (J.  G.),  Bryant  and  his  Friends. — WOODBERRY 
(G.  E.),  The  Poe-Chivers  Papers :  in  the  Century,  January  and  February,  1903  :  vol.  xliii,  pp. 
435-47,  and  545-58.  —  NEWCOMER  (A.  G.),  The  Poe-Chivers  Tradition  reexamiued :  in  the 
Sewanee  Review,  January,  1904 :  vol.  xii,  p.  20. 

CRITICISM 

BARBEY  D'ADREVILLY  (Jules),  Litterature  e'trangere.  —  BARINE  (Arvede)  [Mme.  Cecile 
Vincens] .  Nevrose's  :  Hoffmann;  Quincey  ;  Edgar  Poe;  GeVard  de  Nerval. — BARRETT  (Eliza- 
beth), in  Home's  Letters  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  letter  of  May  12, 1845.  —  BAUDELAIRK 
(Charles).  Edgar  Poe,  sa  vie  et  ses  ceuvres :  in  his  Histoires  extraordinaires,  translated  from 
Poe. —  BAUDELAIRE  (Charles),  Notes  nouvelles:  in  his  Nouvelles  Histoires  extraordinaires. — 


638  LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

BEERS  (H.  A.),  Initial  Studies  in  American  Literature.  —  BENTON  (Joel),  Baudelaire  and  Poe  : 
in  his  In  the  Poe  Circle.  — BETZ  (L.  P.),  Poe  in  der  franzosischen  Litteratur.  —  BROWNING  (E. 
B.),  The  Letters  of  Robert  Browning  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning :  vol.  i.  p.  429.  —  BURTON 
(R.),  Literary  Leaders. — CHADWICK  (J.  W.),  Poe:  in  Chambers's  New  Cyclopaedia  of  English 
Literature,  vol.  iii. — COLLINS  (Churton),  The  Poetry  and  Poets  of  America.  —  DESHLER  (C. 
D.),  Afternoons  with  Authors  :  Sonnets  of  Poe.  —  FRANCE  (Anatole),  La  vie  HtteYaire,  vol.  iv. 

—  FRUIT  (J.  P.),  The  Mind  and  Art  of  Poe's  Poetry.  —  FcLLER-OssOLi  (Margaret),  Life  With- 
out and  Life  Within.    (A  review  of  The  Raven  and  other  Poems,  1845.)  —  *GATES  (L.  E. ),  Studies 
and  Appreciations.  — *GossE  (Edmund),  Questions  at  Issue  :  Has  America  produced  a  poet  ?  — 
GRUEHER  (Gustav),  Notes  on  the  Influence  of  E.  T.  A.  Hoffmann  upon  Edgar  Allan  Poe  :  in  the 
Publications  of  the  Modern  Language  Association,  vol.  xix,  p.  1. —  GRUENER,  (Gustav),  Poe's 
Knowledge  of  German :  in  Modern  Philology,  vol.  ii,  p.  125.  —  HENNEQUIN  (E'mile),  Ecrivains 
francise's. —  HOWE  (M.  A.  DeW.),  American  Bookmen.  — HUTTON  (Ii.  H.),  Criticisms  on  Con- 
temporary Thought  and  Thinkers.    (Review  of  vol.  i  of  Ingram's  edition).  —  *KENT  (C.  W.), 
Poe  the  Poet.     (Introduction  to  vol.  vii  of  the  Virginia  Edition.)  —  LANG  (A.),  Letters  to  Dead 
Authors.  —  *LANG   (A.),  Preface  to  his  edition  of  Poe's  Poems.  —  LAWTON  (W.  C.),  Introduc- 
tion to  the  Study  of  American  Literature.  —  LINTON  (W.  J.),  Pot-pourri.     (Parodies  on  Poe's 
poems,  and  —  according  to  the  author — definitive  criticism  on  his  work.) — LOWELL  (J.  R.), 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  :   in  Graham's  Magazine,  February,  1845 ;  reprinted  in  vol.  iii  of  Griswold's 
edition  of  Poe's  Works ;   in  vol.  x  of  the  Stedman-Woodberry  Edition ;  and  in  vol.  i  of  the  Vir- 
ginia Edition. — *MABIE  (H.  W.),  Poe's  Place  in  American  Literature.     (Introduction  to  vol. 
ii  of  the  Virginia  Edition.) — MALLARME  (Ste*phane),  Divagations:  Edgar  Poe.  —  MATTHEWS 
(B.),  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  American  Literature,  chapter  xii.  —  MATTHEWS   (B.),  Pen 
and  Ink.    (On  the  prose  works.)  —  MAUCLAIR  (Camille),  L'art  en  sileuce  :  Edgar  Poe  ideologue. 

—  MITCHELL  (D.  G.),  American  Lands  and  Letters,  vol.  ii.  — MORE  (P.  E.),  Shelburne  Essays, 
First  Series :  The  Origins  of  Hawthorne  and  Poe.  —  NENCIONI  (E.),  Letteratura  inglese.     (Re- 
view  of  Hennequin's  essay.)  — NICHOL  (J.),  American  Literature,  an  historical  study.  —  ONDER- 
DONK  (J.  L.),  History  of  American  Verse.  —  *RiCHARDSON  (C.  F.),  American  literature,  vol.  ii, 
chapter  iv.  —  ROBERTSON  (J.  M.),  New  Essays  towards  a  Critical  Method  :   Poe. — SALT  (H. 
S.),  Literary  Sketches.  —  *STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Poets  of  America.  —  *STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Introduction 
to   vol.    x  of  the  Stedman-Woodberry   edition   of  Poe's  Works.  —  *SwiNBURNE,    Under    the 
Microscope,  pp.  54,  55.  —  TOLMAN  (A.  H.),  The  Views  about  Hamlet  and  other  essays  :  Was 
Poe  Accurate  ?   (Chiefly  on  ' The  Gold  Bug.')  — TRENT  (W.  P.),  A  History  of  American  Litera- 
ture. —  *TRENT  (W.  P.),  Southern  Writers:   Introduction  to  the  Selections  from  Poe.  — VIN- 
CENT (L.  H.),  American  Literary  Masters.  —  WENDELL  (B.),  A  Literary  History  of  America. — 
WHITMAN',  Specimen  Days :  Edgar  Poe's  Significance.    (Complete  Prose  Works,  p.  149.)  —  WOOD- 
BERRY  (G.  E.),  America  in  Literature,  chapter  iv.  —  WYZEWA  (T.  de),  Ecrivains  Strangers. 

TRIBUTES   IN   VERSE 

*BONER  (John  H.),  Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham :  in  the  Century,  vol.  xxxix,  p.  So ;  and  in 
Stedman's  American  Anthology,  p.  487.  —  FAWCETT  (Edgar),  Edgar  A.  Poe:  in  Edgar  Allan 
Poe,  a  Memorial  Volume.  —  HAYNE  (Paul  H.),  Poe  :  in  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  a  Memorial  Volume. 

—  *LowELL,  A    Fable    for   Critics.  —  MALLARME    (Ste*phane),  Vers  et  Prose:    Le   Tombeau 
d'Edgar  Poe  (Sonnet).  —  M  ALONE  (Walter),   Poems:   Poe's  Cottage   at  Fordham.  —  OSGOOD 
(Frances  Sargent),  Poems,  1850  :  The  Hand  that  Swept  the  Sounding  Lyre.  — *STOCKARD  (A. 
J.),  Fugitive  Lines  :  Sonnets  on  Poe's  Cottage.  —  *TABB  (John  B.),  To  Edgar  Allan  Poe  :  in  The 
Unveiling  of  the  Bust  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  —  TYRRELL  (Henry),  In  the  Ragged  Mountains:  in 
The  Unveiling  of  the  Bust  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  —  *  WHITMAN  "(Sarah  Helen),  Poems,  1878,  pp. 
72-100,  and   195-197.  —  WILSON  (Robert  Bums),  Memorial  Poem  :   in  The  Unveiling  of  the 
Bust  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  —  WINTER  (William),  At  Poe's  Grave  :   in  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  a  Memo- 
rial  Volume.  —  WINTER   (William),    The  Wanderers:  Poem   read  at  the   Dedication  of  the 
Actors'  Monument  to  Poe. 

EMERSON 

EDITIONS 

WORKS,  Little  Classic  Edition,  12  volumes ;  WORKS.  Riverside  Edition,  12  volumes  ;  *COM- 
PLETE  WORKS,  Centenary  Edition,  12  volumes  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  (In  any  of  these  edi- 
tions the  POEMS  can  be  obtained  separately  in  one  volume.  The  *Centenary  Edition  has  about 


EMERSON  639 


fifty  poems  and  fragments  not  contained  in  previous  editions,  and  valuable  notes  by  Dr.  E.  W. 
Emerson.)  —  POEMS,  New  Household  Edition,  1  volume  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  —  *CoRRE- 

SPONDENCE    OF  CARLYLE   AND    EMERSON,  2  Volumes.  —  CORRESPONDENCE    OF   JOHN   STERLING 

AND  EMERSON,  1  volume.  —  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  EMERSON  AND  HERMAN  GRIMM,  7 
volume.  —  *LETTERS  FROM  EMERSON  TO  A  FRIEND,  1  volume. — SELECTED  POEMS,  edited  b; 
George  H.  Browne,  Riverside  Literature  Series. 

BIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES 

BOLTON  (S-  K.),  Emerson  (Chiswick  Series).— *CABOT  (J.  E.)  Memoir  of  Ralph  Waldo  Em- 
erson, 2  volumes,  1887.  (The  authorized  biography.)  —  CAKY  (E.  L.),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson, 
Poet  and  Thinker,  1904.  —  *£MERSON  (E.  W.),  Emerson  in  Concord  :  A  Memoir.  (Very  impor- 
tant ;  a  necessary  supplement  to  Cabot's  Memoir.) — GARNETT  (Richard),  Emerson  (Great  Writ- 
ers Series).— HOLMES  (0.  W.),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (American  Men  of  Letters  Series),  1885. 

—  IRELAND  (Alex.),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson:  His  Life,  Genius,  and  Writings.    Second  Edition, 
augmented,  1882. —  SANBORN  (F.  B.),  Emerson  (Beacon  Biographies),  1801. 

ALBEE  (J.),  Remembrances  of  Emerson,  1901.— ALCOTT  (A.  B.),  Concord  Days,  1872.— 
ALCOTT  (A.  B.),  Emerson,  1865.— ALCOTT  (A.  B.),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  :  An  Estimate  of  his 
Character  and  Genius,  in  prose  and  verse,  1882.  (Containing  the  preceding  essay,  and  three 
poems.)— ALCOTT  (A.  B.),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  :  Philosopher  and  Seer,  1888.  (Identical  with 
the  preceding.) — ALCOTT  (Louisa  M.),  Reminiscences  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson:  in  Parton's 
Some  Noted  Princes,  Authors,  and  Statesmen,  1886.  — BARTLETT  (G.  B.),  Concord,  Historic, 
Literary,  and  Picturesque. —  *BREMER  (Frederika),  Homes  of  the  New  World  ;  impressions  of 
America.  Translated  by  Mary  Howitt,  1853.— BUNGAY  (George  W.),  Off-Hand  Takings,  1854. 

—  CLARKE  (Charles  and  Mary  Cowden),  Recollections  of  Writers  :  Emerson. —  CLARKE  (J.  F.), 
Nineteenth  Century  Questions,  1897.  —  CONWAY  (M.  D.),  Autobiography,  Memories,  and  Expe- 
riences. 1904.—  CONWAY  (M.  D.),  Emerson  at  Home  and  Abroad.— COOKE  (G.  W.),  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson:  His  Life,  Writings,  and  Philosophy,  1881.  —  CORTIS  (G.  W.),  Homes  of  American 
Authors,  1853  ;  the  same,  in  Little  Journeys  to  the  Homes  of  American  Authors,  189(i. —  *CPRTIS 
(G.  W.),  Literary  and  Social  Essays.—  CURTIS  (G.  W.),  The  Easy  Chair:  Emerson  Lecturing.— 
FIELDS  (Mrs.  Annie),  Authors  and  Friends,  1890.  —  FROTHINGHAM  (0.  B.),  Memoir  of  William 
Henry  Channing. —  FROTHINGHAM  (O.  B.),  Theodore  Parker:  A  Biography,  1874.  —  OILMAN 
(Arthur),  Poets'  Homes.    Pen  and  Pencil  Sketches  of  American  Poets  and  their  Homes.    Second 
Series,  1880.  —  GRISWOLD  (H.  T.),  Home  Life  of  Great  Authors.— HALE  (E.  E.),  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson ;  with  two  early  essays  of  Emerson's,  1899. —  HASKINS  (D.  G.),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  : 
His  Maternal  Ancestors ;  with  Some  Reminiscences  of  Emerson.  —  HAWTHORNE,  Passages  from 
the  American  Note-Books,  1868.  vol.  ii :  Sept.  28,  1841 ;  Aug.  5,  15,  22,  Oct.  10, 1842 ;  April  8, 11, 
1843;  May  14,  1850.— *HAWTHORNE,  The  Great  Stone  Face.  —  HAWTHORNE,  Mosses  from  an 
Old  Manse:    The   Old   Manse.  —  HIGGINSON    (T.  W.),  Contemporaries,   1899.  — HOWE  (Julia 
Ward).  Reminiscences,  1819-1899, 1899.—  IRELAND  (Alex.),  In  Memoriam,  Ralph  Waldo  Emer- 
son.—  LANDOR  (W.  S.),  An  Open  Letter  to  Emerson :  in  Literary  Anecdotes  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century. — *LOWELL,  Literary  Essays  :  Emerson,  the  Lecturer.  — MARTINEAU  (Harriet).  Auto- 
biography, Period  iv,  Section  iii. — ROBINSON  (H.  C.),  Diary,  vol.  ii,  chapter  xxii.  —  SANBOR>' 
(F.  B.),  and  HARRIS  (W.  T.),  Life  of  A.  Bronson  Alcott,  1893.  — SANBORN  (F.  B.),  Emerso? 
and  his  Friends  in  Concord,  1890.— SANBORN  (F.  B.),  The  Personality  of  Emerson,  1903.—  SA> 
BORN  (F.  B.),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  :  in  Stoddard's  The  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Our  Elde 
Poets,  1881.  —  SCUDDER  (H.  E.),  Men  and  Letters;  Essays  in  Characterization  and  Criticism. 
Emerson's  Self.  —  *STEARNS  (F.  P.),  Sketches  from  Concord  and  Appledore :  Emerson  Him- 
self. —  THOREAU.  Miscellanies.  —  TROWBKIDGE  (J.  T.),  My  Own  Story,  1904.  — WAT.SH  (Wil- 
liam Shepard),  Pen    Pictures  of  Modern  Authors,  1882.    (Quotations  from  N.  P.  Willis.  Miss 
Bremer,  and  Hawthorne.) — WHIPPLE  (E.  P.).  Recollections  of  Eminent  Men. — *WHITMAN.  Speci- 
men Days  :  A  Visit,  at  the  Last,  to  Ralph.  Waldo  Emerson  ;  Boston  Common  —  More  of  Emer- 
son ;   By  Emerson's  Grave.    (Complete  Prose  Works,  pp.  181-184,  189-190.)  —  WILLIS  (N.  P.), 
Hurrygraphs,  1853. —  WOLFE  (T. F.),  Literary  Shrines;  The  Haunts  of  Some  Famous  American 
Authors,  1895.— *WOODBURY  (C.  J.),  Talks  with  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  1890. 

CRITICISM 

AMES  (Rev.  C.  G.),  Memorial  Address,  April  30,  1882.  — *ARNOLD,  Discourses  in  America. 
—  BARTOL  (C.  A.),  Radical  Problems  :  Transcendentalism.  —  BATES  (Katharine  Lee),  Ameri- 


640  LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

can  Literature. —  *BEERS  (H.  A.),  Points  at  Issue:  Emerson's  Transcendentalism.  —  BENTON 
(Joel),  Emerson  as  a  Poet. —  BUVANCK  (W.  G.  C.),  Poezie  en  leven  in  de  Hide  Eeuw  :  Emerson 
en  Walt  Whitman. —  BIKKELL  (Augustine),  Obiter  Dicta. —  BURROUGHS  (John),  Birds  and  Poets, 
with  Other  Papers  —  BuRKOUGHS  (John),  Emerson  and  the  Superlative  :  in  Essays  from  The 
Critic.  —  BURKOUGHS  (John),  Indoor  Studies  :  Matthew  Arnold's  View  of  Emerson.  — BURTON 
(R.),  Literary  Leaders.  —  CHADWICK  (J.  W.),  Emerson:  in  Chambers's  New  Cyclopaedia  of 
English  Literature.  —  *CHAPMAN  (John  Jay),  Emerson  and  Other  Kssays.  —  CHENEY  (J.  V.), 
That  Dome  in  Air.  —  CONCORD,  Mass.,  SOCIAL  CIRCLE,  The  Centenary  of  the  Birth  of  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson.  —  CROZIER  (J.  B.),  The  Religion  of  the  Future.— DANA  (W.  F.),  Optimism  of 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  —  DOWDEN  (E.),  Studies  in  Literature  :  The  Transcendental  Movement 
and  Literature  —  EELLS  (J.),  Emerson.  A  Tribute,  May  24,  1903.— ELIOT  (C.  W.),  Emerson  as 
Seer:  in  the  Atlantic,  June,  191K —  EVANS  (E.  P.),  Beitrage  zur  amerikanischen  Litteratur  und 
Kulturgeschichte. —  *EVERETT  (C.  C.),  Essays  Theological  and  Literary  :  The  Poems  of  Emerson. 
—  FEDERN  (Karl),  Essays  zur  amerikauischen  Litteratur. — FORSTER  (Joseph),  Four  Great 
Teachers. —  FRANCKE  (Kuno),  Emerson  and  German  Personality :  in  the  International  Quarterly, 
vol.  viii,  p.  93. — FRISWELL  (J.  H.),  Modern  Men  of  Letters  Honestly  Criticised.  — FROTHING- 
HAM  (O.  B.),  Transcendentalism  in  New  England.  —  FROUDE  (J.  A.),  Short  Studies  on  Great 
Subjects,  vol.  iii:  Representative  Men. — FuLLER-OssoLi  (Margaret),  Life  Without  and  Life 
Within  :  Emerson's  Essays.  —  GARNETT  (Richard),  Essays  of  an  ex-Librarian.—  GIFFORD  (Lord 
Adam),  Lectures  Delivered  on  Various  Occasions. —  GORDON  (G.  A.),  Emerson  as  a  Religions  In- 
fluence: in  the  Atlantic,  vol.  xci,  p.  577. —  GRIERSON  (Francis),  The  Celtic  Temperament,  and 
Other  Essays. —*GRiMM  (F.  Hermann),  Fiinfzehn  Essays,  Erste  Folge ;  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 
(Essay  of  1861)  ;  same  essay,  in  Neue  Essays  iiber  Kunstund  Litteratur. — GRIMM  (F.  Hermann), 
Fiinfzehn  Essays,  Dritte  Folge  :  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  (Essay  of  1882,  on  Emerson's  Death.)  — 
GRIMM  (F.  Hermann),  Essays  on  Literature,  translated  by  Sarah  Adams.  (Translations  of  both 
the  preceding  essays.)  —  GUERNSEY  (A.  H.),  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson :  Philosopher  and  Poet.  — 
HAWTHORNE  (J-),  Confessions  and  Criticisms  :  Emerson  as  an  American. —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.), 
and  BOYNTON  (H.  W.),  A  Reader's  History  of  American  Literature.  —  HILL  (A.  S.),  The  Influ- 
ence of  Emerson  :  in  Studies  and  Notes  in  Philology  and  Literature,  vol.  v,  Child  Memorial 
Volume.  — HUNT  (T.  W  ),  Studies  in  Literature  and  Style  :  Emerson's  English  Style.  —  *HuT- 
TON  (R.  H.),  Criticisms  on  Contemporary  Thought  and  Thinkers. —  JAMES  (Henry,  Sr.),  Literary 
Remains. —  JAMES  (Henry,  Jr.),  Partial  Portraits :  Cabot's  Life  of  Emerson. —  JOHNSON  (C.  F.), 
Three  Americans  and  Three  Englishmen.  —  KENNEDY  (W.  S.),  Clews  to  Emerson's  Mvstic 
Verse  :  in  the  American  Author,  June,  1903.  — KERNAHAN  (C.),  Wise  Men  and  a  Fool :  A  Poet 
who  was  not  a  Poet.  — LALANA  (P.  F.  K.),  Emerson  viewed  with  an  Oriental  Eye.  —  LANGHAM 
(J.  J.),  An  Englishman's  Appreciation  of  Emerson. —  LAWTON  (W.  C.),  Introduction  to  the  Study 
of  American  Literature.  —  LAWTON  (W.  C.),  The  New  England  Poets.  —  LEE  (G.  S.),  Emerson 
as  a  Poet :  in  the  Critic,  vol.  xlii,  p.  416  ;  May,  1903.  —  LINDSAY  (J.),  Essays.  Literary  and  Phi- 
losophical. —  The  LITERARY  WORLD,  Emerson  Number,  May  22,  1880.  —  LOCKWOOD  (F.  C.), 
Emerson  as  a  Philosopher.  A  Thesis  presented  to  the  Northwestern  University.  —  LOFORTE- 
RANDI  (Andrea),  Nelle  letterature  straniere.  — MABIE  (H.  W.),  Backgrounds  of  Literature.  — 
*MAETERLINCK  (Maurice), Le  Tre"sor  des  Humbles:  Emerson. —  MANNING  (J.  M.),  Half  Truths 
and  the  Truth. —  MASSACHUSETTS  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY,  Tributes  to  Longfellow  and  Emerson. — 
MEAD  (E.  D.),  The  Influence  of  Emerson.  —  MITCHELL  (D.  G.),  American  Lands  and  Letters.— 
MONTEGUT  (Emile),  Un  penseur  et  poete  ameYicain  :  in  the  Revue  des  deux  Mondes,  Aug.  1, 
1847,  vol.  xix,  pp.  462-494.— MORE  (P.  E.),  Shelburne  Essays,  First  Series:  The  Influence  of 
Emerson. — MORLEY  (J.),  Critical  Miscellanies,  vol.  i.  — NICHOL  (J.),  American  Literature,  an 
Historical  Sketch.  — ONDERDONK  (J.  L.),  History  of  American  Verse.  —  PATMORK  (C.),  Princi- 
ple in  Art.  —  PATTEE  (F.  L.),  History  of  American  Literature.  —  POWELL  (T.),  The  Living 
Authors  of  America,  1850. —  RICHARDSON  (C.  F.),  American  Literature,  vol.  5,  chapter  ix  (prose) ; 
vol.  ii,  chapter  v  (poetry). —  Roz  (Firmin),  L'ide"alisme  ameYicain  :  in  the  Revue  des  deux 
Mondes,  vol.  Ixix.  —  SANBORN  (F.  B.),  The  Genius  and  Character  of  Emerson.  Lectures  (by  sev- 
eral authors)  at  the  Concord  School  of  Philosophy. —  SANBORN  (F.  B.),  Emerson  and  Contempo- 
raneous Poets  :  in  the  Critic,  vol.  xlii,  p.  143  ;  May,  1903.  — *SCHMIDT  (J.),  Neue  Essays:  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson. — SANTA YANA  (G.),  Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion. — SCHONBACH  (A.  E.), 
Ueber  Lesen  und  Bildigung.  — SEARLE  (January)  [George  S.  Phillips],  Emerson,  His  Life  and 
Writings.— SHARP  (R.F.),  Architects  of  English  Literature.  —  *  STEARNS  (F.  P.),  The  Real  and 
Ideal  in  Literature:  Emerson  as  a  Poet. —  STEARNS  (F.  P.),  Cambridge  Sketches:  The  Emer- 
son Centennial ;  Emerson  and  the  Greek  Poete.  — *STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Poets  of  America.  — STE- 
PHBN  (L.),  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  vol.  iv. —  STEWART  (George,  Jr.),  Evenings  in  the  Library.— 
STEWART  (George.  Jr.),  Essays  from  Reviews:  Emerson  the  Thinker.  —  THAYER  (W.  R.),  the 


LONGFELLOW  641 


Influence  of  Emerson. —  *TRENT  (W.  P.),  A  History  of  American  Literature.  —  VINCENT  (L.  H.), 
American  Literary  Masters,  19U5.  —  WHIFFLE  (E.  P.),  American  Literature  and  Other  Papers  : 
Emerson  as  a  Poet;  Emerson  and  Carlyle.  —  WHITMAN,  Specimen  Days,  April  16,  1881:  My 
Tribute  to  Four  Poets.  (Complete  Prose  Works,  p.  173.)  —  WHITMAN,  Letters  to  William  Sloans 
Kennedy  :  in  Poet-Lore,  February,  1895. 

TRIBUTES   IN    VERSE 

ALCOTT  (A.  B.),  Ion  ;  A  Monody  :  in  his  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  etc.,  1882  and  1888.  —  *An- 
NOLD  (Matthew),  Poetical  Works:  Sonnet,  written  in  Emerson's  Essays. —  CHADWICK  (J.  W.), 
Later  Poems:  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  May  25,  1903.  —  CHANNING  (Ellery),  Poems:  Ode,  to 
Emerson.  —  CONE  (Helen  Gray),  Oberon  and  Puck  :  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.—  CHANCH  (C.  P.), 
\riel  and  Caliban,  with  Other  Poems:  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. — *HOLMES,  At  the  Saturday 
Olub.  —  *HoLMES,  For  Whittier's  Seventieth  Birthday.  —  *HosMER  (F.  L.),  Hymn  for  the  Fiftieth 
Anniversary  of  Emerson's  Divinity  School  Address.  —  JOHNSON  (R.  U.),  The  Winter  Hour  and 
Other  Poems:  To  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  September,  1881.  —  JOHNSON  (R.  U.),  The  Winter 
Hour:  Written  in  Emerson's  Poems. — LAKCOM  (Lucy),  Wild  Roses  of  Cape  Ann  and  Other 
Poems :  R.  W.  E.,  May  25,  1880.  —  LAZARUS  (Emma),  To  R.  W.  E. :  in  Sanborn's  The  Genius 
and  Character  of  Emerson.  —  *LowELL,  A  Fable  for  Critics.  —  LOWELL,  Agassiz,  section  iii, 
stanza  iv.  — MOCLTON  (Louise  Chandler),  In  the  Garden  of  Dreams:  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  — 
PARSONS  (T.  W.),  Poems  :  Emerson.— SANBORN  (F.  B.),  The  Poet's  Countersign.  An  Ode  :  in 
Alcott's  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  etc.—  *THOMAS  (Edith),  Emerson:  in  the  Critic,  May,  1903. 
—  *WHITTIER,  The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn,  stanza  xiv.  —  *WoODBERRY  (G.  E.),  Poems,  1903: 
Ode  read  at  the  Emerson  Centenary. 

LONGFELLOW 

EDITIONS 

*COMPLETE  WORKS,  Riverside  Edition,  11  volumes  (vols.  i-vi,  Poetical  Works;  vols.  vii,  viii, 
Prose  Works  ;  vols.  ix-xi,  Translation  of  Dante)  ;  Craigie  Edition,  illustrated,  11  volumes  ; 
Standard  Library  Edition,  illustrated,  14  volumes  (including  the  Life  by  Samuel  Longfellow)  : 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  —  COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS,  *Riverside  Edition,  6  volumes ; 
Handy-Volume  Edition,  5  volumes  ;  *Cambridge  Edition,  1  volume  ;  New  Household  Edition, 
1  volume  ;  etc. :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

BIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES 

*LONGFELLOW  (Samuel),  Life  of  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  with  Extracts  from  his 
Journal  and  Correspondence,  3  volumes,  1891.  (The  standard  biography,  and  in  every  way  sat- 
isfactory. It  combines  and  supersedes  the  Life,  2  volumes,  1886,  and  the  Final  Memorials,  1 
volume,  1887.) — *CARPENTER  (G.  R.),  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (Beacon  Biographies), 
1901.  (The  best  brief  biography.)  —  ROBERTSON  (Eric  S.),  Life  of  Longfellow  (Great  Writers 
Series),  1887.  —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (American  Men  of  Letters 
Series),  1902. 

AUSTIN  (G.  L.),  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow :  His  Life,  his  Works,  his  Friendships,  1883. 
—  CONWAY  (M.  D.),  Autobiography,  Memories  and  Experiences,  1904.  —  CURTIS  (G.  W.), 
Homes  of  American  Authors,  1853;  the  same,  in  Little  Journeys  to  the  Homes  of  American 
Authors,  1896.  —  DAVIDSON  (Thomas),  H.  W.  Longfellow,  1882;  also  in  the  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica,  9th  edition.  — *FIELDS  (Mrs.  Annie),  Authors  and  Friends :  Longfellow,  1807-1882, 
1896.  —  GREENE  (G.  W.),  Life  of  Nathaniel  Greene  (especially  the  *Dedication).  —  HALE  (Rev. 
E.  E.),  Fireside  Travels  :  Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago.  —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Old  Cambridge, 
1899. — HOLMES,  in  Tributes  to  Longfellow  and  Emerson,  by  the  Massachusetts  Historical 
Society.  — *HowELLS  (W.  D.),  My  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintances.  —  KENNEDY  (W.  S.), 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  :  Biography,  Anecdote,  Letters,  Criticism,  1882.  —  LANMAN 
(Chas.),  Haphazard  Personalities,  1886.  -  MACCHETTA  (Blanche  Roosevelt),  The  Home  Life  of 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  :  Reminiscences  of  many  Visits  at  Cambridge  and  Nahant,  during 
1880,  1881  and  1R82.  —  MAINE  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY,  'Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  Seventy- 
fifth  Birthday,  1882. — MASSACHUSETTS  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY,  Tributes  to  Longfellow  and 


642  LIST  OF  REFERENCES 

Emerson,  1882.  —  MITFORD  (M.  R.),  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life,  1851.  —  NORTON  (C.  E.), 
in  Tributes  to  Longfellow  and  Emerson,  by  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society.  —  NORTON 
(C.  E.),  in  Appleton's  Cyclopedia  of  American  Biography,  vol.  iv,  1888.  —  ROSSETTI  (W.  M.), 
Lives  of  Famous  Poets,  1878.  —  SAUNDERS  (Frederic),  Character  Studies,  with  some  persona? 
Recollections,  1894.  —  STEARNS  (F.  P.),  Cambridge  Sketches,  1905.  —  STODDARD  (R.  H.) 
Homes  and  Haunts  of  our  Elder  Poets,  1878.  —  TROWBRIDGE  (J.  T.),  My  Own  Story,  1904.  — 
UNDERWOOD  (F.  H.),  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  a  Biographical  Sketch,  1882. 

CRITICISM 

BADEAU  (Adam),  The  Vagabond,  1859.  —  BANDOW  (Karl),  Die  lyrischen  und  epischen 
Gedichte  des  Amerikaners  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  1850.  —  BATES  (K.  L.),  American 
Literature.  —  BAUMGARTNER  (A.),  Longfellow's  Dichtungen  :  Eiu  literarisches  Zeitbild  aus  dem 
Geistesleben  Nordamerika's,  1887.  —  BKCHOEK  (A.),  Longfellow  :  Literaiisch-biographische 
Studie,  1883.  —  BENT  (S.  A.),  The  Wayside  Inn,  its  History  and  Literature,  1897.  —  BUNGAY  (G. 
W.),  Traits  of  Representative  Men,  1882.  —  BORTON  (R.),  Literary  Leaders,  1903.  —  CAMERINI 
(Eugenio),  Nuovi  profili  letterari,  1875.  —  CHAD  WICK  (J.  W.),  in  Chambers 's  Cyclopaedia  of 
English  Literature,  vol.  iii,  1904. — CHENEY  (J.  V.),  That  Dome  in  Air.  —  COLERIDGE  (Sara), 
Memoir  and  Letters,  vol.  ii,  chapter  vi  (on  '  Evangeline  '  and  'Hyperion').  —  CURTIS  (G.  W.), 
Literary  and  Social  Essays,  1894.—  DEPRET  (Louis),  La  Poesie  en  AmeVique,  1876.  —  DEPRET 
(Louis),  Chez  les  Anglais,  1879.  —  DESHLKR  (C.  D.),  Afternoons  with  Authors:  The  Sonnets  of 
Longfellow,  1879.  —  DEVEY  (J.),  A  Comparative  Estimate  of  Modern  English  Poets.  1873.— 
FISKE  (John),  The  Unseen  World,  and  other  Essays:  Longfellow's  Dante,  1902.  —  FRISWELL 
(J.  H.),  Modern  Men  of  Letters  Honestly  Criticised,  1870.  —  GANNETT  (W.  C.),  Studies  in 
Longfellow  (Riverside  Literature  Series).  —  GOSTWICK  (Joseph),  English  Poets,  1875. — HAT- 
TON  (Joseph),  Old  Lamps  and  New  :  Tennyson  and  Longfellow.  — HAZELTINE  (M.  W.),  Chats 
about  Books,  Poets  and  Novelists,  1883r— HENLEY  (W.  E.),  Views  and  Reviews,  1890.— 
HUTTON  (R.  H.),  Criticisms  on  Contemporary  Thought  and  Thinkers.  —  JOHNSON  (C.  F.),  Three 
Americans  and  Three  Englishmen,  1886.  —  KNORTZ  (Karl).  Longfellow:  Literar-historische 
Studie.  —  LANG  (Andrew),  Letters  on  Literature,  1889.  —  LAWTON  (W.  C.),  Introduction  to  the 
Study  of  American  Literature.  —  LAWTON  (W.  C.),  The  New  England  Poets.  —  MATTHEWS 
(B.),  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  American  Literature.  —  NEWCOMER  (A.  G.),  American  Liter- 
ature.—  NICHOL  (John),  American  Literature,  an  Historical  Sketch,  1882.  —  PALMER  (George 
Herbert),  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  :  in  Atlas  Essays,  No.  2,  1877.  —  PATSCH  (E.),  Long- 
fellow und  seine  Stellung  in  der  nordamerikanischen  Litteratur,  1883.  —  PATTEE  (F.  L.),  A  His- 
tory of  American  Literature.  —  POE  (Edgar  Allan),  Works,  Virginia  Edition :  vol.  x,  pp.  39,  40, 

I ;   vol. 


Hyperion  (October.  1839)  ;  vol.  x,  pp.  71-80,  Voices  of  the  Night  (February,  1840) ;  vol.  xi,  pp. 
64-85,  Ballads  and  Other  Poems  (March,  April.  1842)  ;  vol.  xii,  pp.  41-100,  Imitation  —  Plagi- 
arism—  Mr.  Poe's  Reply  to  Outis  —  The  Longfellow  War  (March  8- April  5,  1845)  ;  vol.  xiii, 
pp.  54-73,  The  Spanish  Student  (August,  1845).  —  PRINS  (A.  de),  Etudes  ameVicaines,  1877. 
—  *RICHARDSON  (C.  F.),  American  Literature,  vol.  ii,  chapter  iii.  — SCHONBACH  (A.  E.),  Gesam- 
melte  Aufsatze  zur  neueren  Litteratur.  —  SHARP  (R.  F.),  Architects  of  English  Literature. — 
SPRENGER  (R.),  Zu  Longfellow's  poetischen  Werken,  1903.  — SIEMT  (O.),  Der  Stabreim  bei 
Longfellow,  1897.  —  *STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Poets  of  America.  —  STEWART  (George,  Jr.),  Evenings  in 
the  Library,  1878.  —  STEWART  (George.  Jr.),  Essays  from  Reviews,  1892.  —  TAYLOR  (B.),  Critical 
Essays  and  Literary  Notes,  1880. —  TRENT  (W.  P.),  A  History  of  American  Literature.— 
VARNHAGEN  (Hermann),  Longfellow's  Tales  of  A  Wayside  Inn  und  ihre  Quellen,  1884. — 
VINCENT  (L.  H.),  American  Literary  Masters,  1905.  —  WENDELL  (B.),  A  Literary  History  of 
America.  —  WHIPPLE  (E.  P.),  Essays  and  Reviews  :  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America.  — WHITMAN, 
in  Essays  from  the  Critic  :  The  Death  of  Longfellow.  —  *WHITMAN,  Specimen  Days :  My  Tribute 
to  Four  Poets;  The  Death  of  Longfellow.  (Complete  Prose  Works,  pp.  173,  174 ;  186,  187.)  — 
WHITTIER,  Prose  Works,  vol.  ii :  Longfellow's  Evangeline.  —  WILLIAMS  (S.  F.),  Essays,  Criti- 
cal, Biographical,  and  Miscellaneous.  —  WINTER  (William),  English  Rambles:  In  Memory  of 
Longfellow.  —  WINTER  (William),  Old  Shrines  and  Ivy.  —  WORDEN  (J.  Perry),  Uber  Longfel- 
low's Beziehungen  zur  deutschen  Litteratur.  —  (For  references,  especially  on  '  Evangeline  '  and 
'  Hiawatha,'  see  the  notes  at  the  beginning  of  those  poems.) 


WHITTIER  643 


TRIBUTES  IN  VERSE 

BATES  (Charlotte  Fiske),  Risk  and  Other  Poems:  The  Craigie  House;  the  same,  revised,  in 
Cambridge  Sketches  by  Cambridge  Authors.  —  *BATES  (Katharine  Lee),  Longfellow  :  In  Memo- 
riam.  —  *BuNNER  (H.  C.),  Airs  from  Arcady  and  Elsewhere  :  Longfellow.  —  CONE  (Helen  Gray), 
Oberon  and  Puck :  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.  —  *DOBSON  (Austin),  In  Memoriam  :  in  thl 
London  Athenasum,  no.  2840,  p.  411.  —  CRANCH  (C.  P.),  Ariel  and  Caliban,  with  other  Poems: 
Longfellow.  — *FAWCETT  (Edgar),  Romance  and  Revery  :  Longfellow  in  Westminster  Abbey.  — 
FREELAND  (H.  W.),  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Longfellow.  —  GLLDEK  (R.  W.),  Lyrics :  Longfellow's 
'  Book  of  Sonnets.'  — .*HAYNE  (Paul  H.),  Complete  Poems  :  Personal  Sonnets,  To  Henry  Wads- 
worth  Longfellow  ;  To  Longfellow  (On  Hearing  he  was  111)  ;  Longfellow  Dead.  —  HOLMES,  To 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  May  27,  18(58.  —  *HoLME8,  For  Whittier's  Seventieth  Birthday.  — 
*HOLMES,  At  the  Saturday  Club.  —  HOLMES,  Our  Dead  Singer,  H.  W.  L.  —  LOWELL,  A  Fable  for 
Critics.  —  *LOWELL,  To  H.  W.  L.  on  his  Birthday,  27th  February,  1867.  —  LOWELL,  Agassiz, 
section  iii,  stanza  iv.  —  MIFFLIN  (Lloyd),  The  Slopes  of  Helicon  and  Other  Poems. —  NICHOL 
(John),  in  Stedman's  Victorian  Anthology,  p.  255.  —  RILEY  (J.  W.),  Green  Fields  and  Running 
Brooks  :  Longfellow.  —  SAVAGE  (Minot  J.),  Poems  :  The  People's  Poet.  — THOMAS  (Edith  H.), 
Vale  et  Salve  :  in  the  Critic,  1882.  —  WATSON  (William),  Wordsworth's  Grave  and  Other  Poems : 
On  Longfellow's  Death.  —  *WHITTIEK,  The  Poet  and  the  Children.  — WHITTIER,  On  a  Fly- 
Leaf  of  Longfellow's  Poems. — WINTER  (William),  Wanderers:  Longfellow. —  (See  also  a 
large  number  of  poems  to  Longfellow,  pp.  307-339  of  Kennedy's  Longfellow,  from  The  Literary 
World,  The  Critic,  Baldwin's  Monthly,  etc.,  etc.) 

WHITTIER 


*CoMPLETE  WORKS,  Riverside  Edition,  7  volumes  (vols.  i  -  iv,  Poetical  Works ;  vols.  v-vii, 
Prose  Works) ;  Amesbury  Edition,  illustrated,  7  volumes  ;  Standard  Library  Edition,  illustrated, 
9  volumes  (including  the  Life  by  S.  T.  Pickard) :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  —  POETICAL  WORKS, 
*Riverside  Edition,  4  volumes  ;  Handy-Volume  Edition,  4  volumes ;  *Cambridge  Edition.  1 
volume  ;  New  Household  Edition,  1  volume  ;  etc. :  Honghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

BIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES 

*PiCKARD  (Samuel  T.),  Life  and  Letters  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  2  volumes,  1894.  (The 
standard  biography.  Excellent.)  —  LINTON  (W.  J.),  Life  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  (Great 
Writers  Series),  1893.  (Of  little  value,  except  for  its  bibliography.)  —  BURTON  (Richard),  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier  (Beacon  Biographies),  1901.  —  HIGGINSON  ( l\  W.),  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 
(English  Men  of  Letters  Series),  1902.  —  *CARPENTER  (G.  R.),  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  (Ameri- 
can Men  of  Letters  Series),  1903.  (The  best  brief  biography.) 

BACON  (E.  M.).  Literary  Pilgrimages  in  New  England:  The  Amesbury  Home  of  Whittier: 
The  Country  of  Whittier.  —  BREMER  (Frederika),  Homes  of  the  New  World,  1853.  — B0NGA? 
(George  W.),  Off-Hand  Takings,  1854.  —  BUTTERWORTH  (H.),  The  Home  of  J.  G.  Whittier,  u 
Parton'sSome  Noted  Princes,  Authors,  and  Statesmen.  —  *CLAFLIN  (Mrs.  M.  B.),  Personal  Re- 
collections of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  1893.  —  DAVIS  (Miss  Rebecca  T.),  Gleanings  from  Merri- 
mac  Valley.  —  *FIELDS  (Mrs.  Annie),  Whittier:  Notes  of  his  Life  and  of  his  Friendships,  1893: 
the  same,  in  Authors  and  Friends,  1896.  —  GARRISON  (Wm.  Lloyd),  John  Greenleaf  Whittier: 
An  Address  Delivered  before  the  Brooklyn  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  December  17,  1892.  — 
GARRISON  (W.  P.  and  F.  J.),  William  Lloyd  Garrison  ;  the  Story  of  his  Life  told  by  his  Children, 
1889.  —  GOPSE  (Edmund),  A  Visit  to  Whittier :  in  the  Bookman,  1899,  vol.  viii,  p.  459  —  GRIMKE 
(A.  H.),  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  the  Abolitionist,  1891.  (Numerous  allusions  to  Whittier.)  — 
GRISWOI,D  (H.  T.),  Home  Life  of  Great  Authors.  —  HAVERHILL,  Mass.,  A  Memorial  of  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier,  1893.  —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Contemporaries.  —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Cheerful 
Yesterdays.  1899.  —  KENNEDY  (W.  S.),  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  the  Poet  of  Freedom  (American 
Reformers  Series),  1892.  —  KENNEDY  (W.  S.),  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  his  Life,  Genius,  and 
Writings.  1S82. —  MAY  (S.  J.),  Some  Recollections  of  our  Anti-slavery  conflict,  1869.  —  MITFORD 
(M.  R.),  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life,  1851.  —  *PICKARD  (S.  f.),  Whittier-Land,  1904.  — 
PICKARD  (S.  T.).  Whittier  as  a  Politician,  Illustrated  by  his  Letters  to  Prof.  Elizur  Wright, 


644  LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

1900.  —  PORTER  (Maria  S.),  Recollections  of  L.  M.  Alcott,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  and  Robert 
Browning,  with  Memorial  Poems,  1893.  —  RANTOUL  (R.  S.),  Some  Personal  Reminiscences  ot  the 
Poet  Whittier :  in  the  Historical  Collections  of  the  Essex  Institute,  April,  1901.  —  SARGENT 
(Mrs.  John  T.),  Sketches  and  Reminiscences  of  the  Radical  Club  of  Chestnut  Street,  1880.— 
SPOFFORD  (Harriet  P.) :  in  J.  L.  and  J.  B.  Gilder's  Authors  at  Home,  1888.  —  STEARNS  (F.  P.), 
Sketches  from  Concord  and  Appledore,  1895. — STODDARD  (R.  H.),  Homes  and  Haunts  of  our 
Elder  Poets,  1878.  —  TAYLOR  (Mrs  Bayard)  and  SCUDDER  (H.  E.),  Life  and  Letters  of  Bayard 
Taylor,  1884.  (Numerous  allusions  to  Whittier.)  —  THOWBRIDGE  ( J.  T.).  My  Own  Story,  1904.  — 
*UNDERWOOD  (F.  H.),  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  a  Biography,  1883.  —  WARD  (Elizabeth  Stuart 
Phelps),  Chapters  from  a  Life.  —  WHITTIER  (C.  C.),  Genealogy  of  the  Whittier  Family,  1622- 
1882,  1882.  —  WOLFE  (T.  F.),  Literary  Shrines :  The  Haunts  of  Some  Famous  American  Au- 
thors. 

CRITICISM 

BATES  (K.  L.),  American  Literature.  —  BRACE  (Donald  G.),  Whittier  as  an  Anti-Slavery  Poet : 
in  the  Columbia  Monthly,  April-May,  1904.  —  BURTON  (R.),  Literary  Leaders,  1903.  —  COLLINS 
(Churton).  The  Poetry  and  Poets  of  America.  —  CHENEY  (J.  V.),  That  Dome  in  Air.  —  DALL 
(Mrs.  Caroline  Wells  Healey),  Barbara  Frietchie,  a  Study,  Boston,  1892.  —  FLOWER  (B.  O.), 
Whittier,  Prophet,  Seer  and  Man.  —  FRIENDS'  SCHOOL,  Providence,  R.  I.,  Proceedings  at  Pre- 
sentation of  Portrait  of  Whittier.  —  HAWKINS  (C.  J.),  The  Mind  of  Whittier,  1904. —HAZEL- 
TINE  (M.  W.),  Chats  about  Books.  — HOWE  (M.  A.  DeW.),  American  Bookmen,  1898.— 
LAWTON  (W.  C.),  The  New  England  Poets.  —  LAWTON  (W.  C.),  Introduction  to  the  Study  of 
American  Literature.  —  MATTHEWS  (B.),  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  American  Literature.  — 
MAOLSBY  (D.  L.),  Whittier's  New  Hampshire  :  in  the  New  England  Magazine,  vol.  xxii,  p.  631, 
1900.  —  MEAD  (E.  D.),  The  Eulogy:  in  the  Haverhill  Memorial  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.— 
MITCHELL  (D.  G.),  American  Lands  and  Letters,  1899.  —  NEWCOMER(A.  G.),  American  Litera- 
ture. —  NICHOL  (J.),  American  Literature.  —  ONDERDONK  (J.  L.),  History  of  American  Verse.  — 
RICHARDSON  (C.  F.),  American  Literature,  vol.  ii,  chapter  vi.  —  STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Poets  of 
America.  —  STEWART  (George,  Jr.),  Evenings  in  the  Library.  —  STEWART  (George,  Jr.),  Essays 
from  Reviews.  —  TAYLOR  (B.),  Critical  Essays  and  Literary  Notes,  1880.  —  TEINCET  (Jeaii). 
Un  poete  americain:  in  the  Revue  britannique,  1899,  vol.  v,  p.  5.  —  TRENT  (W.  P.),  A  History  ot 
American  Literature.  —  VINCENT  (L.  H.),  American  Literary  Masters,  1905.  —  WENDELL  (B.), 
Stelligeri  and  Other  Essays.  —  WHIPPLE  (E.  P.),  American  Literature  and  other  Papers  :  Ameri- 
can Literature.  —  WHIPPLE  (E.  P.),  Essays  and  Reviews :  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America.  —  WHIT- 
MAN (W.),  Specimen  Days,  April  16,  1881.  (Complete  Prose  Works,  p.  173).  —  WOODBERRY 
(G.  E.),  Makers  of  Literature,  1900. 

TRIBUTES   IN  VERSE 

BATES  (Charlotte  Fiske),  Risk  and  Other  Poems :  Oak  Knoll,  Danvers  ;  On  his  Seventieth  Birth- 
day. —  CARLETON  (Will),  Ode  to  Whittier  :  in  the  Haverhill  Memorial  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 
—  CHADWICK  ( J.  W.),  Later  Poems  :  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  Read  before  the  Brooklyn  Insti- 
tute on  the  Anniversary  of  his  Birthday,  1892.  — CRANCH  (C.  P.),  Ariel  and  Caliban,  with  Other 
Poems:  To  John  Qreenleaf  Whittier,  December  5,  1877. —  GARRISON  (Wm.  L.),  Verses  Read 
at  the  Whittier  Memorial  Gathering,  October  7,  1892  :  printed  with  his  Address  delivered  before 
the  Brooklyn  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  December  17,  1892.—  HAYNE  (Paul  H.),  Complete 
Poems  :  To  the  Poet  Whittier  on  his  Seventieth  Birthday.  —  *HOLMES,  For  Whittier's  Seventieth 
Birthday.  —  HOLMES,  To  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  on  his  Eightieth  Birthday.  —  *HOLMES,  In 
Memory  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  :  December  17,  1807— September  7,  1892.  —  LARCOM  (Lucy), 
Wild  Roses  of  Cape  Ann  and  Other  Poems:  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  December  17,  1877.— 
LONGFELLOW,  The  Three  Silences  of  Molinos.  —  *LowELL.  A  Fable  for  Critics.  —  *LowELL, 
To  Whittier  on  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday.  —  PORTER  (Maria  S.).  Recollections  of  L.  M.  Alcott, 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  and  Robert  Browning:  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  —  SANGSTER  (Mar- 
garet), Whittier :  fnStedman's  American  Anthology.  —  SHURTLEFF  (E.  W.),  Whittier,  in  Pro- 
ceedings at  the  Presentation  of  Portrait  of  Whittier,  Friends'  School,  Providence.  —  *STEDMAN, 
Poetical  Works :  Ad  Vatem.  —  TAYLOR,  Poetical  Works :  A  Friend's  Greeting,  1877.  —  *WniT- 
MAN  (  W.),  Leaves  of  Grass  :  As  the  Greek's  Signal  Flame  (for  Whittier's  Eightieth  Birthday).— 
WIITNEY  (A.  D.  T.),  White  Memories:  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  —  (See  also  the  '  Whittier 
dumber'  of  the  Literary  World,  December,  1877.) 


HOLMES  645 


HOLMES 

EDITIONS 

*COMPLETE  WORKS,  Riverside  Edition,  14  volumes  (vols.  i-xi,  Prose  Works ;  vols.  xii-xiv, 
Poems) ;  Autocrat  Edition,  illustrated,  13  volumes  (in  this  and  the  following  edition  the  poems 
occupy  only  two  volumes) ;  Standard  Library  Edition,  illustrated,  15  volumes  (including  the 
Life  by  John  T.  Morse,  Jr.)  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  —  POETICAL  WORKS,  *Riverside  Edition, 
3  volumes;  *Cam bridge  Edition,  1  volume;  Household  Edition,  1  volume;  etc.:  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co. 

BIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES 

*MORSE  (John  T.,  Jr.),  Life  and  Letters  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  2  volumes,  1896.  (The 
standard  biography.)  —  CROTHERS  (S.  M.),  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  (To  be  published  in  1900, 
in  the  American  Men  of  Letters  Series.) 

BALL  (James),  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  and  his  Works ;  Being  a  brief  Biographical  and 
Critical  Review,  London,  1878. — FIELDS  (Mrs.  Annie),  Authors  and  Friends,  1896. — GRIS- 
WOLD  (H.  T.),  Home-Life  of  Great  Authors.  —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Old  Cambridge.— 
*HOWELLS  (W.  1).),  My  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintances. — JERROLD  (Walter),  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes,  London,  Ib93.  (A  compilation.)  —  KENNEDY  (W.  S.),  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
Poet,  Litterateur,  Scientist,  1883.  —  MITFORD  (M.  R.).  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life,  1851.  — 
NOBLE  (J.  H.),  Impressions  and  Memories  :  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  1895.  — ROLLINS  (A.  W.), 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes :  in  J.  L.  &  J.  B.  Gilder's  Authors  at  Home.  —  SMALLEY  (G.  W.), 
Studies  of  Men  :  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  1895.  — SMITH  (J.  E.  A.),  The  Poet  among  the  Hills  ; 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  in  Berkshire,  his  Berkshire  poems,  etc.,  1895.  —  TROWBRIDGE  (J.  T.), 
My  Own  Story,  1904. 

CRITICISM 

BURTON  (R.),  Literary  Leaders,  1903.  —  *COLLINS  (Churton),  The  Poetry  and  Poets  of 
America. —  The  CRITIC,  Holmes  Number,  August  30,  1884.  — CURTIS  (G.  W.),  Literary  and 
Social  Essays,  1895.  —  HAWEIS  (H.  R.),  American  Humorists.  —  HOWE  (M.  A.  DeW.),  American 
Bookmen.  —  LANG  (A.),  Adventures  among  Books:  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  —  LAWTON  (W. 
C.),  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  American  Literature.  —  LAWTON  (W.  C.),  The  New  England 
Poets.  — LODGE  (H.  C.).  Certain  accepted  Heroes,  and  Other  Essays  in  Literature  and  Politics : 
Dr.  Holmes,  1897. — MATTHEWS  (Brander),  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  American  Literature, 
chapter  xiii.  —  MEYNEI.L  (Alice),  The  Rhythm  of  Life  and  Other  Essays  :  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes.  —  NEWCOMER  (A.  G.),  American  Literature.  —  ONDERDONK  (J.  L.),  History  of 
American  Verse.  —  PAYNE  (W.  M.),  Little  Leaders,  1895.  —  RICHARDSON  (C.  F.),  American 
Literature,  vol.  ii,  chapter  vi.  —  STEARNS  (F.  P.),  Cambridge  Sketches:  Doctor  Holmes. — 
*STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Poets  of  America.  —  *STEPHEN  (L.),  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  1898.— 
STEWART  (George,  Jr.),  Evenings  in  the  Library.  —  STEWART  (George,  Jr.),  Essays  from 
Reviews.  —  TAYLOR  (B.),  Critical  Essays  and  Literary  Notes  :  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  1877.— 
TRENT  (W.  P.).  A  History  of  American  Literature,  1S03.  —  VINCENT  (L.  H.),  American  Liter- 
ary Masters,  1905.  —  VOSSION  (Louis),  Un  poete  ameYicain  :  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  1896.  — 
WENDELL  (B.),  A  Literary  History  of  America,  1900.  — WHIPPLE.  (E.  P.),  Essays  and  Re- 
views :  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,  1848.  —  WHITTIER,  Prose  Works,  vol.  iii :  Mirth  and 
Medicine.  —  WHITTIER,  Prose  Works,  vol.  ii :  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

TRIBUTES   IN   VERSE 

CRANCH  (C.  P.),  Ariel  and  Caliban  :  To  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  set.  70.  —  *GossE  (Edmund), 
An  Epistle  to  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  on  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday,  August  29.  1884.  — 
LARCOM  (Lucy).  Wild  Roses  of  Cape  Ann  :  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  August  29, 1879.  —  LATHROP 
(Geo.  Parsons),  Youth  to  the  Poet  (To  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes) :  in  Scribner's  Monthly,  vol.  xix. 
—  LOWELL,  A  Fable  for  Critics. — LOWELL,  Agassiz,  section  iii.  stanza  iii. — *LowELL,  To 
Holmes  on  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday.  — TROWBRIDGE  (J.  T.),  Filling  an  Order. — *WHITTIER, 
Our  Autocrat.  —WHITTIER,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  on  his  Eightieth  Birthday.  —  *WHITTIER, 
To  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  —  *WINTER  (William)  Wanderers  :  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  or 
the  Chieftain.  —  (See  also  the  CRITIC,  Holmes  Number.  August  30,  1884,  for  Poems  by  Julia 
C.  R.  Dorr,  R.  W.  Gilder,  E.  E.  Hale,  Bret  Harte,  Edith  M.  Thomas,  etc.) 


046  LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

LOWELL 

EDITIONS 

•COMPLETE  WOKKS,  Riverside  Edition,  11  volumes;  Standard  Library  Edition,  illustrated,  11 
volumes;  Elnrwood  Edition,  illustrated,  16  volumes  (including1  the  Letters  of  Lowell  and  thf 
Life  by  H.  E.  Scudder)  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. — WORKS,  Popular  Edition,  6  volumes, 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  —  POETICAL  WOKKS,  *Riverside  Edition,  4  volumes  ;  *Cambridge  Edi- 
tion, 1  volume  ;  Household  Edition,  1  volume  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  —  *LETTERS,  edited  by 
Charles  E.  Norton,  2  volumes :  Harper  &  Brothers  ;  the  same,  3  volumes :  Houghton.  Mifflin  «fe 
Co.  (The  three-volume  edition  of  the  Letters  is  sold  only  as  a  part  of  the  Elm  wood  Edition  of 
Lowell's  Complete  Works. )  —  IMPRESSIONS  OF  SPAIN,  compiled  by  J.  B.  Gilder.  (Official  de- 
spatches, etc.,  during  Lowell's  ministry  to  Spain.) 

BIOGRAPHY  AND  REMINISCENCES 

*SCUDDEB  (H.  E.),  James  Russell  Lowell,  a  Biography,  1901.  (The  standard  biography.)  — 
*GHEKNSLET  (F.),  James  Russell  Lowell,  his  Life  and  Work,  1905.  (The  best  brief  biographi- 
cal and  critical  study.)  —HALE  (E.  E.,  Jr.),  James  Russell  Lowell  (Beacon  Biographies),  1899. 

BBEMEB  (Frederika),  Homes  of  the  New_  World,  1853.  —  BRIGGS  (C.  F.),  James  Russell 
Lowell :  in  Homes  of  American  Authors,  1853 ;  the  same,  in  Little  Journeys  to  the  Homes  of 
American  Authors,  1896.  —  CONWAY  (M.  D.),  Autobiography,  Memories,  and  Experiences,  1904. 

—  GRISWOLD  (H.  T.),  Home  Life  of  Great  Authors.  —  HALE  (Rev.  E.  E.),  James  Russell  Lowell 
and  his  Friends.  —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Book  and  Heart :   Last  Years  in  Cambridge.  —  HIGGIN- 
SON  (T.  W.),  Old  Cambridge.  —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Cheerful  Yesterdays.  —  HIGGINSON  (T. 
W.),    Contemporaries.  —  *  Ho  WELLS   (W.    D.),    Literary    Friends    and    Acquaintances.  —  The 
LITERARY  WORLD,  Lowell  Number,  June  27,  1885.  —  LOWNDES   (F.  S.  A.),  Literary  Asso- 
ciations of  the  American  Embassy  :  in  the  Fortnightly  Review,  June,  1905.  — POND  (George  E.). 
Lowell  at  Harvard  :  in  the  Liber  Scriptornm  of  the  New  York  Authors'  Club.   (Reminiscences  of 
Lowell's  class  in  Dante).  —  SANBORN  (F.  B.),  James  Russell  Lowell :  in  Homes  and  Haunts  of  our 
Elder  Poets,  1878.  —  SMALLEY  (G.  W.),  London  Letters  and  Some  Others:  Lowell  in  England, 
1891.— STEAD  (W.  T.),  Character  Sketches,  1891. —STEARNS  (F.   P.),  Cambridge  Sketches, 
1905.  —  TROWBRIDGE    (J.   T.),   My  Own  Story,  1904. —UNDERWOOD  (F.  H.),  James  Russell 
Lowell,  1882.  —  UNDERWOOD  (F.  H.),  The  Poet  and  the  Man,  Recollections  and  Appreciations 
of  James  Russell    Lowell,  1893.  —  WENDELL   (B.),  Stelligeri,  and  Other  Essays   Concerning 
America :  Mr.  Lowell  as  a  Teacher. 

CRITICISM 

BEALS  (S.  B.),  Outline  Studies  in  James  Russell  Lowell,  his  Poetry  and  Prose.  —  BURTON 
(R.),  Literary  Leaders.  —  CHADWICK  (J.  W.),  Lowell :  in  Chambers's  New  Cyclopaedia  of  Eng- 
lish Literature,  vol.  iii.  —  CHENEY  (J.  V.),  That  Dome  in  Air.  — COLLINS  (Churton),  The  Po- 
etry and  Poets  of  America.  —  CURTIS  (G.  W.).  James  Russell  Lowell,  an  Address,  1892  ;  the  same, 
in  his  Orations  and  Addresses,  vol.  iii ;  also,  in  Memorials  of  Two  Friends,  N.  Y.,  1902.  —  DESH- 
LER  (C.  D.),  Afternoons  with  the  Poets:  Sonnets  of  Lowell.  —  HAWEIS  (H.  R.),  American  Hu- 
morists. —  HOWE  (M.  A.  DeW.).  American  Bookmen.  —  *JAMES  (Henry,  Jr.),  Essays  in  London 
and  Elsewhere.  —  LAWTON  (W.  C.),  The  New  England  Poets.  —  LAWTON  (W.  C.),  An  Introduc- 
tion to  the  Study  of  American  Literature.  —  MABIE  (H.  W.),  My  Study  Fire  :  the  Letters  of 
Lowell.  —  MACARTHUR  (H.),  Realism  and  Romance.  —  MATTHEWS  (B.),  Introduction  to  the 
Study  of  American  Literature. — MEYNELL  (A.),  The  Rhythm  of  Life  and  Other  Essays. — 
NEWCOMER  (A.  G.),  American  Literature. — NICHOL  (J.),  American  Literature.  —  POE,  Com- 
plete Works,  Virginia  Edition,  vol.  xi  :  Poems  by  James  Russell  Lowell ;  vol.  xiii :  The  Fable 
for  Critics.  —  RICHARDSON  (C.  F.),  American  Literature,  vol.  ii,  chapter  vii.  —  ROOSEVELT  (Theo- 
dore), James  Russell  Lowell,  in  the  Critic,  vol.  ix,  p.  86. —  STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Poets  of  America. 

—  STEWART  (George,  Jr.),  Essays  from  Reviews.  —  STEWART  (George,  Jr.).  Evenings  in  the 
Library.  — TAYLOR  (B.),  Critical  Essays  and  Literary  Notes.  —  *TRENT  (W.  P.).  A  History  of 
American  Literature.  —  VINCENT  (L.  H.),  American  Literary  Masters,  1905. — WATSON  (W.), 
Excursions  in  Criticism  :   Lowell  as  a  Critic.  —  *WENDELL  (B.),  A  Literary  History  of  America 

<-  WHIPPLE  (E.  P.).  Essays  and  Reviews,  1861.  —  WHIPPLE  (E.  P.),  Outlooks  on  Society,  Litera- 


WHITMAN  647 


ture  and  Politics:  Lowell  as  a  Prose  Writer.  —  WHITMAN  (W.),  Letter  to  Sylvester  Baxter, 
beginning,  '  Camden,  N.  J.,  Aug.  13,  '91.  Let  me  send  my  little  word  too  to  James  Russell 
Lowell's  memory.'  (Boston  Public  Library  MS.)  — WILKINSON  (W.  C.),  A  Free  Lance  in  the 
Field  of  Life  and  Letters.  —  *WOODBEHRY  (G.  E.),  Makers  of  Literature. 

TRIBUTES  IN  VERSE 

ALDRICH  (T.  B.),  Unguarded  Gates  and  Other  Poems:  Elmwood.  —  BOLTON  (Mrs.  S.  K.). 
The  Inevitable  and  Other  Poems  :  James  Russell  Lowell.  —  CONE  (Helen  Gray),  The  Ride  to 
the  Lady  and  Other  Poems :  The  Gifts  of  the  Oak.  —  CKANCH  (C.  P.),  The  Bird  and  the  Bell, 
with  Other  Poems :  J.  R.  L.  on  his  Fiftieth  Birthday.  —  CRANCH  (C.  P.),  Ariel  and  Caliban, 
with  Other  Poems  :  J.  R.  L.,  on  his  Homeward  Voyage.  —  EMERSON,  in  Greenslet's  James  Rus- 
sell Lowell,  p.  144.  —  FIELD  (Eugene),  James  Russell  Lowell.  —  GILDER  (R.  W.),  Two  Worlds 
and  Other  Poems:  J.  R.  L.,  on  his  Birthday.  —  GILDER  (R.  W.),  The  Great  Remembrance: 
Lowell.  —  HOLMES,  Farewell  to  James  Russell  Lowell.  —  HOLMES,  At  a  Birthday  Festival :  To 
James  Russell  Lowell.  —  HOLMES,  To  James  Russell  Lowell.  —  HOLMES,  For  Whittier's  Seven- 
tieth Birthday.  —  HOLMES,  To  James  Russell  Lowell  on  his  Seventieth  Birthday.  —  *HoLME8, 
James  Russell  Lowell,  1819-1891.  —  *LONGFELLOW,  The  Herons  of  Elmwood.  —  PARSONS  (T. 
W.),  James  Russell  Lowell:  in  the  Literary  World,  August  29,  1891.  — SAVAGE  (Rev.  Minot 
J.),  These  Degenerate  Days.  —  STORY  (W.  W.),  To  James  Russell  Lowell:  in  Blackwood's 
Magazine,  October,  1891:  also  in  the  Critic,  October  10,  1891.  —  *WHITTIKR,  A  Welcome  to 
Lowell.  —  *WHITTIER,  James  Russell  Lowell.  —  (See  also  the  Literary  World,  June  27,  1885, 
for  poems  by  Wm.  Everett,  Rose  Terry  Cooke,  Charlotte  Fiske  Bates,  Will  Carleton,  Margaret 
J.  Preston,  Clinton  Scollard,  Oscar  Fay  Adams,  etc.) 


WHITMAN 

EDITIONS 

*LEAVES  OF  GRASS,  including  Sands  at  Seventy,  Good-bye  my  Fancy,  Old  Age  Echoes  (Whit- 
man's COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS),  and  A  Backward  Glance  O'er  Travel'd  Roads,  1  volume  ; 
*COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS,  1  volume  ;  *CALAMCS,  A  Series  of  Letters  Written  during  the  Years 
1868-1880,  by  Walt  Whitman  to  a  young  friend  (Peter  Doyle),  edited  with  an  Introduction  by  R. 
M.  Bucke  ;  *THE  WOUND  DRESSER,  A  Series  of  Letters  Written  from  the  Hospitals  in  Washing- 
ton during  the  War  of  the  Rebellion,  edited  by  R.  M.  Bucke  :  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  —  *NoTES 
AND  FRAGMENTS  :  Left  by  Walt  Whitman  and  now  edited  by  Dr.  R.  M.  Bucke :  Privately  Printed, 
1899.  (Also  in  the  Camden  Edition,  below.)  —  IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN,  edited  by  his  Literary  Ex- 
ecutors: David  McKay,  1893.  (Contains  nine  articles  by  Whitman.) — *COMPLETE  WORKS,  Cam- 
den Edition,  10  volumes:  G.  P.  Putnam'sSons.  (Sold  only  by  subscription.) — WALT  WHITMAN'S 
DIARY  IN  CANADA,  with  Extracts  from  other  of  his  Diaries  and  Literary  Notebooks,  edited  by 
W.  S.  Kennedy,  1004:  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  — AN  AMERICAN  PRIMER,  edited  by  Horace 
Traubel,  1904 :  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  —  (The  above  are  the  only  authorized  or  in  any  way  com- 
plete editions  of  Whitman's  writings.)  —  LEAVES  OF  GRASS  :  T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.  (A  reprint  of 
the  1860  edition.)  — LEAVES  OF  GRASS  :  David  McKay.  (Containing  only  such  poems  as  had  ap- 
peared before  1872,  with  variorum  readings  —  not  always  accurate  —  from  earlier  editions.)  — 
SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  PROSE  AND  POETRY  OF  WALT  WHITMAN,  edited  by  O  L.  Triggs.  (The 
authorized  volume  of  selections,  and  by  far  the  best.)  —  *POEMS,  selected  and  edited  by  W.  M. 
Rossetti:  London,  1868;  new  edition,  1886.  —  *LEAVES  OF  GRASS,  Edition  of  1860,  a  facsimile 
reproduction  of  Whitman's  copy,  with  his  notes  for  revision,  is  announced  by  Horace  Traubel 
for  publication  by  subscription. 

BIOGRAPHY  AND  REMINISCENCES 

*BucKE  (R.  M.),  Walt  Whitman,  1883.  (An  authorized  biography.)  —  *!N  RE  WALT  WHIT- 
MAN, edited  by  his  literary  executors,  1893.  (Designed  to  supplement  and  complete  the  author- 
ized biography.)  —  *BUCKE  (R.  M.),  HARNED  (T.  B.),  and  TRACBEL  (Horace),  Life  of  Whitman: 
in  vol.  i  of  the  Camden  Edition  of  Whitman's  Works.  —  *PLATT  (I.  H.),  Walt  Whitman  (Beacon 


648  LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

Biographies),  1904.  (The  latest  and  best  brief  book  on  Whitman.)  —  *TKAUBEL  (Horace),  With 
Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,  1905.  (A  diary  record  of  Whitman's  life  and  conversation  during  his 
last  years.)  —  Volumes  on  Whitman  are  soon  to  be  added  to  the  American  Men  of  Letters  Series 
(by  Bliss  Perry),  and  to  the  English  Men  of  Letters  Series  (by  G.  R.  Carpenter). 

ARNOLD  (Edwin),  Seas  and  Lands,  1891,  pp.  78-84. — ASKHAM  (Richard)  [Henry  Bryan 
BINNS],  Life  of  Whitman,  London,  1905.  —  BAZALGETTE  (Le'oii),  Walt  Whitman,  I'homnie, 
1'ceuvre,  la  prophetic,  Paris,  1905  or  1906.  — BCCKE  (R.M.),  The  Man  Walt  Whitman:  in  la  Re 
Walt  Whitman.  —  *BUKROUGHS  (John),  Notes  on  Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and  Person.  1807. — 
CAMDEN'S  Compliments  to  Walt  Whitman,  May  31,  1889,  edited  by  Horace  Traubel,  1889. 
(Containing  Whitman's  Autobiographic  Note  and  Response ;  Poems  by  Rhys  and  Traubel ; 
Addresses  by  R.  W.  Gilder,  Julian  Hawthorne,  Hamlin  Garland,  etc. ;  and  letters  from  Tenny- 
son, Rossetti,  Morris,  Dowden,  Stedman,  Whittier,  etc.)  —  CLARKE  (Wm.),  Walt  Whitman, 
London,  1892.  —  The  CONSERVATOR,  many  articles  on  Whitman.  —  DONALDSON  (T.  C.),  Walt 
Whitman,  the  Man,  1890.  —  GILMAN  (Arthur),  Pen  and  Pencil  Sketches  of  American  Poets  and 
their  Homes,  1879.  — GOULD  (E.  P.),  Walt  Whitman  among  the  Soldiers:  in  Gems  from  Walt 
Whitman,  1889.  —  GOULD  (E.  P.),  Anne  Gilchristand  Walt  Whitman.  1900.  — HUBBARD  (Elbert), 
Walt  Whitman:  in  Little  Journeys  to  the  Homes  of  American  Authors,  1890. — JOHNSTON 
(John),  Diary  Notes  of  a  Visit  to  Walt  Whitman  and  Some  of  His  Friends,  in  1890.  Privately 
printed,  1890,  published,  1898.  —  *KENNEDY  (W.  S.),  Reminiscences  of  Walt  Whitman,  with 
Extracts  from  his  Letters  and  Remarks  on  his  Writings,  1890.— MORSE  (Sidney  H.).  My  Sum- 
mer with  Walt  Whitman,  1887  :  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  —  O'CONNOR  (  W.  D.),  The  Good  Gray 
Poet,  a  Vindication,  1806.  (Reprinted  in  Bucke's  Walt  Whitman.)  —  *0'CoNNOR  (W.  D.),  Three 
Tales.  (The  Carpenter  represents  Whitman.)  —  O'CONNOR  (W.  D.),  The  Good  Gray  Poet,  Sup- 
plemental: in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  —  ROSSETTI  (W.  M.),  Lives  of  Famous  Poets,  1878. — 
SELWYN  (George),  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden:  in  J.  L.  &  J.  B.  Gilder's  Authors  at  Home,  1888. 
—  SKINNER  (C.  M.),  Walt  Whitman  as  an  Editor:  in  the  Atlantic,  November,  1903,  vol.  xcii, 
p.  079. — STODDARD  (R.  H.),  Homes  and  Haunts  of  our  Elder  Poets.  —  TRAUBEL  (Horace), 
Walt  Whitman  at  Date  :  in  the  New  England  Magazine,  May,  1891,  n.  s.  vol.  iv,  pp.  275-292  ; 
also  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  — TRAUBEL  (Horace),  Walt  Whitman  :  Poet  and  Philosopher  and 
Man  :  in  Lippincott's  Magazine,  vol.  xlvii,  p.  287, 1891 ;  also  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  —  TRAUBEL 
(Horace),  Lowell- Whitman,  a  Contrast:  in  Poet-Lore,  January,  1892. — *TRAUBEL  (Horace), 
Notes  from  Conversations  with  George  W.  Whitman,  1893  :  in  In"  Re  Walt  Whitman.  —  TRAUBEI 
(Horace),  Conversations  with  Walt  Whitman  :  in  the  Arena,  January,  1890.  —  *TRAUBEL  (Horace), 
editor,  Walt  Whitman  Fellowship  Papers.  —  TRAUHEL  (Horace),  editor,  At  the  Grave-side  of 
Walt  Whitman.  —  *TROWBRIDGE  (J.  T.),  Reminiscences  of  Walt  Whitman:  in  the  Atlantic, 
vol.  Ixxxix,  p.  163,  February,  1902.  —  *TROWBRIDGE  (J.  T.),  My  Own  Story,  11)04.  —  WOLFE 
(T.  F.),  Literary  Shrines,  the  Homes  of  Some  Famous  American  Authors  :  A  Day  with  the  Good 
Gray  Poet,  1895. 

CRITICISM 

AUSTIN  (A.),  Poetry  of  the  Period.  —  BIJVANCK  (W.  G.  C.),  Poezie  en  Leven  in  de  19de 
Eeuw:  Emerson  en  Walt  Whitman. —  BORN  (Helena),  Whitman's  Ideal  Democracy  and  Other 
Writings,  1902. — BUCHANAN  (R.),  David  Gray  and  Other  Essaysj  1868.  —  *BuOHANAN  (R.), 
The  Fleshly  School  of  Poetry  :  note,  on  p.  96.  —  BUCHANAN  (R.),  A  Look  Round  Literature  : 
The  American  Socrates,  1886.  —  BUCKE  (R.  M.),  Walt  Whitman  and  the  Cosmic  Sense,  in  In  Re 
Walt  Whitman.  —  BUCKE  (R.  M.),  Cosmic  Consciousness,  1901.  — BURKE  (Charles  Bell),  The 
Open  Road,  or  the  Highway  of  the  Spirit :  An  Inquiry  into  Whitman's  Absolute  Selfhood.  A 
Thesis  Presented  to  Cornell  University.  —  BURROUGHS  (John),  Birds  and  Poets:  The  Flight  of 
the  Eagle,  1878.  —  BURROUGHS  (John),  Walt  Whitman  and  his  Recent  Critics,  in  In  Re  Walt 
Whitman.  —  BURROUGHS  (John),  Art  for  Life's  Sake,  in  the  Dial,  October,  1893.  — *BuR- 
ROUGHS  (John),  Whitman:  A  Study,  1896.  —  BURTON  (R.),  Literary  Leaders,  1803.  —CAR- 
PENTER (Edward),  Angels'  Wings  :  Wagner,  Millet,  and  Whitman,  1898.  —  *CHAPMAN  (J.  J.), 
Emerson  and  Other  Essays.  —  CHENEY  (J.  V.),  That  Dome  in  Air,  1895.  —  CHIMENTI  (F.), 
Larghi  Orizzonti :  Walt  Whitman  e  1'arte  nuova.  —  CLIFFORD  (W.  K.),  Lectures  and  Addresses  : 
Cosmic  Emotion.  —  The  CONSERVATOR,  many  articles  on  Whitman.  —  CONWAY  (M.  D.),  Walt 
Whitman,  in  the  Fortnightly  Review,  October  15,  1865.  (Quoted,  in  part,  in  Walsh's  Pen  Pic- 
tures of  Modern  Authors.)  —  *DowDEN  (Edward),  Studies  in  Literature,  1789-1877  :  The  Poetry 
of  Democracy,  Walt  Whitman.  (From  the  Westminster  Review,  July,  1871).  —  *£LLIS  (Have- 
lock),  The  New  Spirit.  1890.  —  *EMERSON,  Letter  to  Whitman,  quoted  in  Platt's  Walt  Whit- 
man, pp.  27,  28.  —  *EMERSON,  Letter  to  Carlyle,  May  6,  1856  :  The  Correspondence  of  Carlyle 


WHITMAN  649 


and  Emerson,  vol.  ii.  p.  283.  —  EMERSON,  in  Woodbury's  Talks  with  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  pp. 
62,  63.  —  FEDBRN  (Karl),  Essays  zur  amerikanischen  Litteratur,  1899.  —  FORMAN  (H.  B.),  Our 
Living  Poets  :  Introduction.  —  GAMBERALE  (Luigi),  Canti  Scelti  (Italian  translation  of  selec- 
tions from  Leaves  of  Grass)  :  Introduction,  1887.  —  GAMBERALE  (Luigi),  La  Vita  e  le  Opere 
di  Walt  Whitman :  in  the  Rivista  d'ltalia,  vol.  i,  p.  181  ;  translated  in  part  in  the  Conservator, 
September,  1904.  —  GAY  (William),  Walt  Whitman  :  His  Relation  to  Science  and  Philosophy, 
Melbourne,  1895.  — *GILOHRIST  (Anne),  An  Englishwoman's  Estimate  of  Walt  Whitman  ;  from 
Late  Letters  to  W.  M.  Rossetti :  in  H.  H.  Gilchrist's  Anne  Gilchrist,  Her  Life  and  Writings, 
1887  ;  also  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  —  *GILCHRIST  (Anne),  A  Confession  of  Faith,  in  H.  H.  Gil- 
christ's Anne  Gilchrist,  Her  Life  and  Writings,  18S7  :  also  in  E.  P.  Gould's  Anne  Gilchrist  and 
Walt  Whitman.  —  *GossE  (Edmund),  Critical  Kit-Kats,  1896. —  GREG  (Thomas  T.).  Walt 
Whitman:  Man  and  Poet,  1888.  —  GUTHRIE  (William  Norman),  Modern  Poet-Prophets,  Essays 
critical  and  interpretative  :  Walt  Whitman  the  Camden  Sage,  1897.  —  HARKED  (T.  B.),The 
Poet  of  Immortality  :  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  —  HARNED  (T.  B.),  Walt  Whitman  and  Ora- 
tory ;  Walt  Whitman  and  Physique ;  Walt  Whitman  and  his  Second  Boston  Publishers : 
in  vol.  viii  of  the  Camden  Edition.  —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Contemporaries,  1890.  —  HOLMES 
(Edmond),  Walt  Whitman's  Poetry,  a  Study  and  a  Selection,  1902.  — HOWE  (M.  A.  DeW.), 
American  Bookmen,  1898.  —  JAMES"  (H..  Jr.),  Walt  Whitman's  Letters  to  Peter  Doyle  :  in  Litera- 
ture, April  16,  1898.  —  JAMES  (H..  Jr.),  The  War  and  Literature  ;  The  Wound  Dresser  :  in  Lit- 
erature, May  7,  1898.  — JANNACONE  (P.),  La  Poesia  di  Walt  Whitman,  e  1'Evoluzione  delle 
Forme  Ritmiche,  Turin,  1898.  —  KENNEDY  (W.  S.),  The  Poet  as  a  Craftsman,  1886.  —  KNORTZ 
(Karl),  Vorwort  und  Einleitung  (introducing  the  German  translation  of  selected  poems,  by 
Knortzand  Rolleston),  Zurich,  1889;  translated,  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  —  KNORTZ  (Karl), 
Walt  Whitman ;  Der  Dichter  der  Demokratie,  1899.  —  LANIER  (C.  D.),  Walt  Whitman  :  in  the 
Chautauquan,  1892,  vol.  xv,  pp.  311-313.  —  *LANIER,  Letters,  1866  to  1881  :  To  Bayard  Taylor, 
February  3.  1878.  —  LANIER,  The  English  Novel  and  its  Development ;  Lecture  iii.'—  LE  GAL- 
LIENNE  (R.),  Walt  Whitman,  an  Address. — *MABIE  (H.  W.),  Backgrounds  of  Literature: 
America  in  the  Poems  of  Walt  Whitman.  1903.  — *MACPHAIL  (Andrew),  Essays  in  Puritanism. 
1905.— MAYNARD  (Mrs.  M.  T.),  Walt  Whitman,  the  Poet  of  the  Wider  Selfhood,  1903.— 
MAYNARD  (Laurens),  Walt  Whitman's  Comradeship  :  in  the  Whitman  Fellowship  Papers.  — 
NENCIONI  (E.),  Letteratura  inglese  :  II  Poeta  della  Guerra  americana. —  NEWCOMER  (A.  G.), 
American  Literature.  —  NICHOL  (John).  American  Literature,  an  Historical  Sketch,  1882. — 
NOBLE  (Charles),  Studies  in  American  Literature,  1898.  —  *NOEL  (Roden),  Essays  on  Poetry 
and  Poets:  A  Study  of  Walt  Whitman,  1886.  — NOYES  (Carleton  E.),  Whitman's  Message  to  a 
Young  Man  :  in  the  Conservator.  January,  1905. —  ONDERDONK  (J.  L.),  History  of  American 
Verse,  1901.  —  RAYMOND  (G.  L.),  Art  in  Theory:  Whitman  as  a  Romanticist.  —  RHYS  (E.), 
Poems  by  Walt  Whitman  (The  Canterbury  Poets)":  Introduction,  1886.  —  RICHARDSON  (C.  F.), 
American  Literature.  —  ROBERTSON  (J.  M.),  Walt  Whitman,  Poet  and  Democrat,  Edinburgh, 
1884.  —  ROLLESTON  (T.  W.).  Ueber  Wordsworth  und  Walt  Whitman,  Dresden,  1883  ;  translated, 
in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  —  *ROSSETTI  ( W.  M.).  Poems  of  Whitman,  Selected  and  Edited  :  Pre- 
fatory Notice,  1868. —  ROSSETTI  (W.  M.),  Rnskin.  Rossetti.  Pre-Raphaelitism.  (Allusions  to 
Whitman,  pp.  134,  147,  159-160.)  —  SALTER  (W.  M.),  Walt  Whitman,  Two  Addresses:  The 
Great  Side  of  Walt  Whitman  ;  The  Questionable  Side  of  Walt  Whitman.  1899.  —  SANTA YANA 
(George),  Walt  Whitman,  A  Dialogue:  in  the  Harvard  Monthly.  May,  1890.  —  *&ANTAYAN/ 
(George),  Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion  :  The  Poetry  of  Barbarism,  1900. —SANTA- 
TANA  (George),  Introduction  to  the  Selections  from  Walt  Whitman  :  in  G.  R.  Carpenter'? 
American  Prose.  —  SARRAZIN  (Gabriel),  La  Renaissance  de  la  poe"sie  anglaise,  1798-1889 
Walter  Whitman  ;  the  same,  translated  by  Harrison  S.  Morris  :  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  — 
SCHLAF  (Johannes),  Walt  Whitman.  Lyrik  des  chat  noir,  Paul  Verlaine.  —  SCHMIDT  (Rudolf), 
Buster  og  Masker  ;  Litteratur-Studier,  Copenhagen,  1882  ;  translated,  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman. 
—  *STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Poets  of  America,  1885.  —  *STEVENSON  (R.  L.).  Familiar  Studies  of  Men 
and  Books.  1882.  —  STEVENSON,  Miscellanies,  vol.  ii.  —  SWINBURNE,  William  Blake,  A  Critical 
Essay,  1868.  —  *SWINBURNE,  Under  the  Microscope.  1872.  —  *SwiNBURNE,  Studies  in  Prose  and 
Poetry  :  Whitmania.  1894.  (From  the  Fortnightly  Review.  August  1.  1887.)  —  *SYMONDS  (J. 
A.).  Essays,  1890,  vol.  ii :  Democratic  Art,  with  Special  Reference  to  Walt  Whitman  ;  the  same, 
in  Essays  Speculative  and  Suggestive.  —  *SYMONDS  (J.  A.),  Walt  Whitman,  a  Study,  1893.  — 
*THAYER  (W.  R.),  Throne-Makers  and  Portraits.  —  *TRENT  (W.  P.),  A  History  of 'American 
Literature.  —  TRIGGS  (O.  L.),  Browning  and  Whitman,  a  Study  in  Democracy.  1893.  —  TRIGGS 
<O.  L.),  Selections  from  Whitman's  Prose  and  Poetry  :  Introduction,  1898.  —  TRIMBLE  ( W.  H.), 
Walt  Whitman  and  Leaves  of  Grass:  An  Introduction,  London,  1905.  —  VINCENT  (L.  H  ), 
American  Literary  Masters,  1905.  — VON  ENDE  (A.),  Walt  Whitman  and  Arno  Holz  :  in  Poet- 


650  LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

Lore,  June,  1905.  —  WENDELL  (B.),  A  Literary  History  of  America,  1900.  —  ^WHITMAN,  Walt 
Whitman  and  his  Poems ;  Leaves  of  Grass  ;  An  English  and  an  American  Poet :  in  In  Re  Walt 
Whitman.  —  Prefaces  to  Leaves  of  Grass  :  in  Complete  Prose  Works.  —  A  Backward  Glance 
o'er  Travel'd  Roads:  in  Leaves  of  Grass,  final  edition. —  WILKIE  (James),  The  Democratic 
Movement  in  Literature,  1886.  —  WYZEWA  (T.  de),  Ecrivains  Grangers,  1899. 

TRIBUTES   IN   VERSE 

*BAEKEK  (Elsa),  To  Walt  Whitman :  in  the  Conservator,  1903.  —  BARLOW  (George),  From 
Dawn  to  Sunset :  Walt  Whitman.  —  BLOCK  (L.  J.),  The  New  World  and  Other  Verse  :  Walt 
Whitman.  —  *BuNNER  (H.  C.),  Airs  from  Arcady  and  Elsewhere  :  Home,  Sweet  Home,  with 
Variations  :  vi,  Walt  Whitman.  (The  best  of  all  parodies  on  Whitman's  style,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  genuine  tribute  to  him.)  —  BROWN  (J.  H.),  Poems  Lyrical  and  Dramatic  :  To  Walt 
Whitman.  —  D'ANNUNZIO  (Gabriele),  Poema  Paradisiaco,  p.  216. —  OAKLAND  (Hamlin),  Walt 
Whitman  :  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman.  —  *GILDEB  (R.  W.),  A  Wondrous  Song  :  in  the  Conservator, 
June,  1905.  — HOKTON  (George),  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman,  p.  22. —LAW  (James  D.),  Dreams 
o'  Hame  and  Other  Scotch  Poems:  A  Few  Words  to  Walt  Whitman.  —  LLOYD  (J.  William), 
Wind-Harp  Songs:  Mount  Walt  Whitman. —MA YNARD  (Laurens),  For  Whitman's  Birthday, 
1895:  in  the  Conservator,  June,  1895.  —  MORRIS  (H.  S.),  Madonna  and  Other  Poems:  Walt 
Whitman;  also  in  Stedman's  American  Anthology.  —  PIATT  (J.  J.),  To  Walt  Whitman  the 
Man:  in  the  Cosmopolitan,  November,  1892. —RHYS  (Ernest),  A  London  Rose  and  Other 
Poems :  To  Walt  Whitman  on  his  Seventieth  Birthday  :  also  in  Camden's  Compliments  to  Walt 
Whitman.  —  *STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Walt  Whitman,  March  30,  1892.  —  *SYMONDS  (J.  A.),  Life  and 
Death,  a  Symphony  :  in  In  Re  Walt  Whitman,  pp.  1-12.  —  *SWINBURNE,  Songs  before  Sunrise  : 
To  Walt  Whitman  in  America,  1871.  —  WILLIAMS  (F.  H.),  The  Flute  Player  and  Other 
Poems :  Walt  Whitman,  May  31,  1886 ;  Walt  Whitman,  March  26,  1892  :  the  second  is  also  in 
Stedman's  American  Anthology. 

LANIER 

EDITIONS 

*POEMS,  edited  by  his  wife,  with  a  memorial  by  William  Hayes  Ward,  1  volume  :  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.  —  *TnE  SCIENCE  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE,  1  volume  :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  — 
RETROSPECTS  AND  PROSPECTS,  Descriptive  and  Historical  Essays ;  Music  AND  POETRY,  a 
Volume  of  Essays ;  THE  ENGLISH  NOVEL,  A  Study  in  the  Development  of  Personality  :  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.  —  SHAKSPERE  AND  HIS  FORERUNNERS,  Studies  in  Elizabethan  Poetry  and  its 
Development  from  Early  English,  edited  by  H.  W.  Lanier,  2  volumes :  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
—  *LETTERS  OF  SIDNEY  LANIER,  Selections  from  his  Correspondence  1866-1801,  1  volume- 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  —  SELECT  POEMS,  edited  with  an  Introduction!  and  Notes  by  Morgan 
Callaway,  Jr. :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

BIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES 

WARD  (W.  H .),  Memorial :  in  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,  1884.  —  *MiMS  (Edwin),  Sidney  Lanier 
(American  Men  of  Letters  Series),  1905. 

BASKERVILL  (W.  M.),  Sidney  Lanier :  in  Southern  Writers,  Biographical  and  Critical  Studies, 
1896-1897.  —  BOYKIN  (Laurette),  Home  Life  of  Sidney  Lanier,  1889.  — BROWNE  (William 
H.),  Memorial  Address  before  the  Johns  Hopkins  University,  October  22,  1881  (privately 

Jrinted).  —  GILMAN  (D.  C.),  editor,  The  Forty-sixth  Birthday  of  Sidney  Lanier,  February  3, 
888.  (Containing  poems  by  John  B.  Tabb,  Richard  Burton,  Edith  Thomas,  etc.  ;  letters  from 
Lowell,  Stedman,  Gilder,  etc. ;  and  a  bibliography  by  Richard  Burton.)  —  *GiLMAN  (D.  C.), 
Sidney  Lanier,  Reminiscences  and  Letters:  in  the  South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  April,  1905. — 
HAYNE  (Paul  H.),  A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend  :  in  the  Critic,  vol.  v,  pp.  77,  78,  89,  90,  February 
13,  20,  1886:  also  in  The  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier.  —  NEWELL  (A.  C.),  Lanier's  Life  at 
Oglethorpe  College:  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution,  February  27,  1894.  —  *NORTHRUP  (M.  H.), 
Sidney  Lanier,  Recollections  and  Letters,  in  Lippincott's  Magazine,  March,  1905.  — TURNBULL 
(Mrs.  Lawrence),  The  Catholic  Man  :  A  Study,  1890.  (The  character  of  Paul  represents  Sidney 
Lanier.)  —  WEST  (C.  N.),  A  Brief  Sketch  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Sidney  Lanier,  1888.  — 


LANIER  653 


WILLS  (George  S.),  Sidney  Lanier :  in  the  Publications  of  the  Southern  History  Association,  vol. 
iii,  pp.  190-211,  1899.    (With  a  complete  bibliography  of  Lanier's  writings.) 

CRITICISM 

*BENTZON  (Th.)  [Mme.  The'rese  Blanc],  Choses  et  gens  d'Ame'rique :  Un  musicien  poete 
Sidney  Lanier,  1898  :  translated,  in  Littell's  Living  Age,  May  14,  21.  1898.  —  GOSSE  (Edmund) 
Questions  at  Issue,  1893.  —  HJGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Women  and  Men  :  The  Victory  of  the  Weak, 
1888.  —  *HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  Contemporaries,  1899.  —  HIGGINSON  (T.  W.),  and  BOYNTON  (H. 
W.),  A  Reader's  History  of  American  Literature,  1903.  — *KENT  (Charles  W.),  A  Study  of 
Lanier's  Poems:  in  the  Publications  of  the  Modern  Language  Association,  vol.  vii,  pp.  33-63, 
1892.  —  MORRIS  (H.  S.),  The  Poetry  of  Sidney  Lanier :  in  the  American,  Philadelphia,  February 
18,  1888.  —  NEWCOMER  (A.  G.),  American  Literature.  — STEDMAN  (E.  C.),  Poets  of  America, 
1885.  —  *THAYER  (W.  R.),  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peacock,  Introduction:  in 
the  Atlantic,  vol.  74,  pp.  14-17,  1894  ;  also,  in  the  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier.  pp.  3-9.  — THAYER 
(W.  R.),  in  the  Independent,  June  12,  1884,  Sidney  Lanier  and  his  Poetry  ;  December  18,  1884, 
Lanier's  Poems-  —  THAYER  (W.  R.),  Sidney  Lanier's  Poems :  in  the  American,  Philadelphia, 
December  20,  1884.  —  TOLMAN  (A.  H.),  The  Views  about  Hamlet  and  Other  Essays:  Lanier's 
Science  of  English  Verse,  1904.  —  TRENT  (W.  P.),  Southern  Writers  :  Introduction  to  the  Selec- 
tions from  Lanier,  1905.  — WARD  (W.  H.),  Sidney  Lanier,  Poet:  in  the  Century,  April,  1888. 
—  WENDELL  (B.),  A  Literary  History  of  America.  —  WILKINSON  (W  C-),  in  the  Independent, 
September,  1886. 

TRIBUTES   IN   VERSE 

BARBE  ( W.),  Ashes  and  Incense.  —  BURROUGHS  (Ellen),  in  the  Literary  World,  vol.  xxi,  p.  40, 
February  1,  1890.  —  BURTON  (Richard),  To  Sidney  Lanier:  in  The  Forty-sixth  Birthday  of 
Sidney  Lanier. — CUMMINGS  (James),  The  Stranger's  Invocation  before  the  Bust  of  Lanier:  fn 
The  Forty-sixth  Birthday  of  Sidney  Lanier.  —  FISKE  (Isabella  H.),  Sidney  Lanier:  in  the  New 
York  Times  Saturday  Review,  September  2,  1905.  —  GARLAND  (Hamlin).  in  the  Southern 
Bivouac,  vol.  ii,  p.  759,  May,  1887.  —  HAYNE  (Paul  H.),  Complete  Poems  :  The  Pole  of  Death, 
In  Memory  of  Sidney  Lanier.  — HAYNE  (William  H.),  Sylvan  Lyrics  and  Other  Verses  :  Sidney 
Lanier.  — *HoVEY  (Richard),  The  Laurel,  an  Ode:  To  Mary  Day  Lanier.  —  REESE  (Lizette 
W.),  in  the  Southern  Bivouac,  vol.  ii,  p.  488,  January,  1887.  — REESE  (Lizette  W.),  With  a  Copy 
of  Lanier's  Poems:  in  the  Independent,  vol.  44,  p.  322,  March  3,  1892.  — ROBERTS  (Charles  G. 
D.),  In  Divers  Tones:  To  the  Memory  of  Sidney  Lanier;  On  Reading  the  Poems  of  Sidney 
Lanier.  —  ROBERTS  (Charles  G.  D.),  For  a  Bust  of  Lanier  :  in  the  Independent,  vol.  xlii,  p.  625, 
April  30,  1891.  — *TABB  (J.  B.),  Poems:  p.  116,  To  Sidney  Lanier;  p.  117,  On  the  Forthcoming' 
Volume  of  Sidney  Lanier's  Poems.  —  THOMAS  (Edith  M.),  Sidney  Lanier :  fn  The  Forty-sixtl, 
Birthday  of  Sidney  Lanier.  —  TURNBULL  (Mrs.  Lawrence),  In  Memoriam,  Sidney  Lanier,  dief 
September  7,  1881 :  fn  The  Forty-sixth  Birthday  of  Sidney  Lanier. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  was  born  at  Cummington,  Mass.,  November  3,  1794.  Of 
what  sturdy  New  England  stock  he  came  may  be  guessed  from  the  entry  in  his  mother's 
diary  (which  she  kept  for  fifty-three  years  without  missing  a  day),  under  that  date: 
'  Stormy  wind  N  E  —  churned  —  unwell,  seven  at  Night  a  Son  Born.'  Two  days  later 
the  entry  reads  :  '  Clear  Wind  N  W  —  Made  Austin  a  coat.  .  .  .'  Bryant's  mother,  like 
Longfellow's,  was  a  descendant  of  John  and  Priscilla  Alden  of  the  Plymouth  Colony. 
His  earliest  American  ancestor  on  his  father's  side  is  said,  like  so  many  others,  to  have 
come  over  in  the  Mayflower.  It  is  at  least  certain  that  he  was  at  Plymouth  in  1632, 
and  he  was  constable  of  the  colony  in  1663.  Bryant's  father,  his  grandfather,  and  his 
grandmother's  father  were  all  New  England  country  doctors.  His  father  was  a  genial 
and  generous  man,  a  lover  of  poetry,  especially  that  of  the  school  of  Pope.  He  en- 
couraged his  boy  to  read  Pope's  Iliad,  and  to  act  the  old  story  over  again  with  wooden 
shields  and  swords  and  mock-heroic  costume ;  and  also  encouraged  him  in  his  early  writ- 
ing and  in  his  later  devotion  to  poetry,  though  not  always  in  sympathy  with  the  style 
and  manner  of  his  work.  In  all  these  points  he  reminds  us  of  Browning's  father. 

Bryant  began  to  write  verses  when  he  was  eight  years  old.  He  showed  similar 
precocity  in  other  ways.  Though  he  was  never  a  strong  child,  yet  '  On  my  first  birth- 
day,' he  says, '  there  is  a  record  that  I  could  already  go  alone,  and  on  the  28th  of  March, 
1796,  when  but  a  few  days  more  than  sixteen  months  old,  there  is  another  record  that  I 
knew  all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet.'  He  was  sent  to  school  at  three  years  old,  and  could 
read  well  at  four.  His  early  verses  were  mostly  in  heroic  couplets,  and  include  school 
poems  and  versions  of  a  part  of  the  Book  of  Job  and  the  first  book  of  the  ^Eneid,  etc. 
They  are  much  like  the  verses  written  in  colonial  days  by  worthy  Puritan  divines.  Like 
Elizabeth  Barrett,  he  published  his  first  volume  at  the  age  of  thirteen.  This  was  a  satire 
on  the  political  events  of  the  time,  and  it  actually  had  a  second  edition  the  following 
year  —  a  thing  which  probably  has  happened  to  no  other  poet  when  so  young. 

Bryant  was  prepared  for  college,  as  was  usual  in  those  times,  bv  studying  in  the  fami- 
lies of  country  ministers.  From  one  he  learned  Latin,  from  another  Greek.  It  took  him 
eight  months  to  go  through  the  Latin  grammar,  the  New  Testament  in  Latin,  Virgil's 
.fEneid,  Eclogues,  and  Georgics,  and  a  volume  of  Cicero's  orations.  After  a  summer's 
work  on  the  farm  he  then  attacked  Greek,  and  '  at  the  end  of  two  calendar  months,' 
according  to  his  own  testimony,  '  knew  the  Greek  Testament  from  end  to  end  almost  as 
if  it  had  been  English.'  This  was  when  he  was  fourteen  years  old.  The  following  year 
he  mastered  his  mathematics,  and  entered  the  sophomore  class  of  Williams  College  at 
the  age  of  fifteen. 

Before  he  had  quite  completed  the  year  at  Williams,  he  withdrew  from  college,  intend- 
ing to  prepare  himself  for  the  junior  class  at  Yale.  But  when  the  time  came  for  entering 
there  in  the  fall,  it  was  found  that  the  family  means  would  not  allow  Bryant  to  finish  a 
college  course,  and  he  accordingly  turned  to  the  study  of  the  law  as  the  quickest  way  to 
prepare  himself  for  earning  a  living.  He  passed  his  preliminary  bar  examinations  in 
1814,  was  admitted  as  attorney  in  1816,  and  practised  for  nine  years. 

In  the  meantime  '  Thanatopsis  '  and  the  '  Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood,' 
at  first  called  '  A  Fragment,'  had  been  published  in  the  North  American  Review  for  Sep- 
tember, 1817-  The  story  of  how  '  Thanatopsis '  had  been  written  when  Bryant  was  only 


656  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

sixteen  or  seventeen  years  old,  and  how  his  father,  having  received  a  letter  asking  for 
contributions  to  the  Review,  found  these  unfinished  poems  in  a  desk  and  submitted  them  to 
the  editors,  who  were  at  first  unable  to  believe  that  they  had  been  written  by  so  young  a 
man  as  Bryant,  or  even  by  any  one  '  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,'  has  often  been  told. 
(See  the  notes  on  '  Thanatopsis,'  pp.  1,  2;  Bigelow's  Bryant,  pp.  38-41;  or  Bradley's 
Bryant,  pp.  27-33.)  Bryant  was  asked  to  be  a  regular  contributor  to  the  North  American, 
and  his  next  important  poem  published  there  was  the  lines  '  To  a  Waterfowl.'  A  col- 
lection of  his  Poems  was  published  in  September,  1821,  containing  eight  pieces,  five  ol 
which  are  included  in  the  present  volume.  The  slight  success  of  this  book,  of  which  onh 
270  copies  were  sold  in  five  years,  showed  that  an  audience  for  the  best  poetry  had  still 
to  be  created  in  America.  Bryant's  name  was  already  known,  however,  as  that  of  the 
most  promising  of  the  younger  poets,  and  he  had  been  invited  to  deliver  the  annual  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  poem  at  Harvard  in  1821.  It  was  for  this  occasion  that  '  The  Ages,'  the 
longest  poem  in  the  volume  of  1821,  had  been  written. 

Bryant  wrote  very  little  from  the  time  when  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  in  1816,  until 
1821,  except  the  noble  '  Hymn  to  Death,'  which  he  took  up  and  completed  at  the  time 
when  his  father  died,  in  March,  1820.  Soon  after  this  a  new  impulse  came  into  his  life, 
in  his  love  for  Miss  Frances  Fairchild,  whom  he  married  June  11,  1821.  Of  the  many 
poems  written  for  her  at  this  time,  Bryant  preserved  only  one,  '  O  fairest  of  the  rural 
maids.'  Throughout  his  life  he  was  very  severe  in  his  criticism  of  his  own  verses,  and 
is  said  to  have  destroyed  more  than  he  printed. 

Bryant  was  weary  of  the  law  (see  the  last  stanza  of  '  Green  River '),  but  the  sale  of 
his  volume  of  Poems  was  not  such  as  to  give  him  hope  of  making  a  living  by  purely 
literary  work.  During  the  five  years  following  its  publication  his  total  profit  from  the 
sale  had  been  814.92.  In  1825,  however,  after  two  visits  to  New  York,  he  found  employ- 
ment there  as  associate  editor  of  the  New  York  Review  and  Athenceum  Magazine,  just 
ab6ut  to  be  established.  The  first  number  appeared  in  June,  1825,  and  Bryant  moved  to 
New  York  to  take  up  the  editorial  work  which  was  to  keep  him  there  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  New  York  was  then  a  village  of  150,000  inhabitants,  with  the  northern  city  limits 
at  what  is  now  Canal  Street.  The  part  of  New  York  still  known  as  Greenwich  Village, 
south  of  Washington  Square,  was  then  a  summer  resort. 

Bryant's  first  magazine,  like  so  many  others  at  that  time,  was  not  successful,  and  lived 
for  only  a  year.  At  the  beginning  of  1826  he  again  took  up  the  practice  of  the  law  for  a 
short  time.  Later  in  the  year,  however,  he  was  asked  to  be  assistant  editor  of  the  New 
York  Evening  Post,  and  three  years  later  became  editor-in-chief.  His  connection  with 
the  paper  as  editor  and  part  owner  lasted  for  fifty-two  years. 

Bryant  was  so  engrossed  with  his  editorial  work  (for  many  years  he  kept  office  hours 
from  seven  in  the  morning  till  four  in  the  afternoon),  and  with  the^nany  demands  of  life 
in  a  growing  metropolitan  and  cosmopolitan  city,  that  he  gave  little  time  to  poetry.  In 
1832  he  visited  the  West  (accidentally  seeing  Lincoln,  who  was  leading  a  company  of 
Illinois  volunteers  across  the  prairie  to  the  Black  Hawk  war),  and  wrote  his  poem  '  The 
Prairies;'  he  wrote  no  other  poem  of  importance  for  three  years.  A  new  collection  of 
his  poems  had  been  published  in  1831,  both  in  America  and  in  England  (see  the  note  on 
the  '  Song  of  Marion's  Men,'  p.  17),  which  considerably  increased  his  reputation.  In 
1834  to  1836  he  took  his  first  trip  to  Europe,  visiting  England,  France,  Italy,  and  Ger- 
many, where,  at  Heidelberg,  he  met  Longfellow,  then  preparing  himself  for  his  pro- 
fessorship at  Harvard. 

Bryant  was  always  fond  of  travelling,  and  visited  Europe  again  in  1845,  in  1849,  in 
1852-53,  when  he  saw  something  of  the  Oriental  countries  also,  in  1857,  and  again  in 
1858,  when  he  met,  at  Rome  and  Florence,  the  Brownings,  W.  W.  Story,  Crawford, 
Page,  Miss  Hosmer  (the  sculptress),  Frederika  Bremer,  Hawthorne,  and  Landor,  whom 
he  greatly  admired;  and  still  again  in  1866.  His  impressions  were  recorded  in  letters  to 
the  Evening  Post,  some  of  which  have  been  collected  in  his  Letters  from  a  Traveller,  Let- 
ters from  the  East,  and  Letters  from  Spain  and  other  Countries.  He  also  travelled  exten- 
sively in  America  at  various  times.  His  life,  during  all  these  years,  was  uneventful ;  the 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT  657 

time  which  he  could  give  to  writing  was  almost  wholly  filled  with  editorial  work,  and 
he  produced  only  a  few  poems  from  year  to  year.  New  editions  of  his  poems  were,  how- 
ever, published,  always  with  some  additions,  in  1834,  1836,  1842,  1844,  and  a  collection 
in  two  volumes  in  1854. 

Bryant  was  an  active  worker  in  the  formation  of  the  Republican  party  in  1855.  In 
1859  he  presided  at  a  lecture  given  by  Lincoln.  Lincoln  said :  '  It  was  worth  the  journey 
to  the  East  to  see  such  a  man,'  and  Bryant  was  so  impressed  with  Lincoln's  personality 
that  he  threw  the  whole  influence  of  the  Post  in  favor  of  his  nomination  for  the  Presidency 
in  the  following  year,  and  was  himself  presidential  elector  on  the  Republican  ticket.  The 
Post  was  always  a  distinct  power  in  national  life,  and  especially  so  during  the  Civil 
War.  Bryant  had  never  been  an  abolitionist,  but  he  was  one  of  the  strongest  supporters 
of  the  Union,  and,  once  the  war  had  begun,  of  the  policy  of  emancipation.  His  criticism 
of  the  administration  was  sometimes  severe,  especially  in  the  matter  of  its  greenback 
policy,  but  he  retained  close  relations  with  Lincoln  and  was  one  of  his  most  valued 
advisers.  The  struggle  of  these  years  had  but  few  echoes  in  his  poetry,  except  in  two 
poems  of  1861,  <  Our  Country's  Call '  and  '  Not  Yet,'  and  in  three  later  poems,  '  My 
Autumn  Walk,'  '  The  Death  of  Lincoln,'  and  the  '  Death  of  Slavery.'  He  seems  rather 
to  have  sought  a  refuge  in  poetry  from  the  strain  of  his  daily  work  and  the  anxiety  of 
the  time.  It  was  in  1862-63  that  he  wrote  '  Sella  '  and  the  '  Little  People  of  the  Snow,' 
which  have  more  lightness  and  charm  than  anything  else  in  his  work,  and  made  a  trans- 
lation of  the  Fifth  Book  of  the  Odyssey.  A  collection  of  his  later  work  was  published 
in  1863,  with  the  title  Thirty  Poems. 

Already  Bryant  had  long  been  recognized  as  the  chief  of  our  elder  poets,  and  was  called 
the  '  Father  of  American  Song.'  This  position,  and  still  more  the  service  which  he  had 
done  and  was  doing  as  a  man  and  a  citizen,  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  further  poetical 
work,  were  practically  recognized  by  a  meeting  at  the  Century  Club  in  New  York,  of 
which  Bryant  was  for  many  years  President.  To  this  meeting  the  American  republic  of 
letters  sent  its  best  representatives,  men  of  a  generation  just  younger  than  Bryant,  yet 
whose  literary  reputation  was  already  greater  than  his,  to  do  him  honor  on  his  seventieth 
birthday.  Whittier  wrote,  — 

Who  weighs  him  from  his  life  apart 
Must  do  his  nobler  nature  wrong, 
and 

His  life  is  now  his  noblest  strain, 
His  manhood  better  than  his  Terse. 

Holmes  sent  the  finest  of  his  many  poetical  tributes  to  contemporaries,  and  Lowell  wrote 
for  this  occasion  '  On  Board  the  '76  ; '  but  perhaps  the  greatest  tribute  was  Emerson's 
address.  This  was  the  culminating  point  in  Bryant's  career.  He  spoke  of  himself  as  '  one 
who  has  carried  a  lantern  in  the  night,  and  who  perceives  that  its  beams  are  no  longer 
visible  in  the  glory  which  the  morning  pours  around  him.'  It  is  true  that  Bryant  is  inferior 
to  his  younger  contemporaries  in  the  scope,  the  abundance,  and  the  beauty  of  his  poetical 
work.  But  he  remains  the  pioneer  of  American  poetry,  and  neither  in  the  high  nobility  of 
his  writing,  nor  in  his  dignity  and  his  faithful  work  as  a  man,  has  he  been  surpassed. 

In  1866  Mrs.  Bryant  died.  Bryant's  feeling  of  his  loss  is  expressed  only  in  the  one 
poem  '  A  Life-Time.'  He  gave  himself  up  during  the  following  years  to  his  translation  of 
Homer.  The  Iliad  was  completed  and  published  in  1870,  the  Odyssey  in  1872.  During 
the  last  years  of  his  life  he  wrote  a  few  poems,  characterized  by  the  same  high  dignity  of 
expression  which  marks  all  his  best  work,  and  showing  no  loss  of  power.  '  The  Flood  of 
Years '  comes  as  the  conclusion  of  his  work  and  as  a  fitting  pendent  to  '  Thanatopsis  '  at 
its  commencement.  This  and  '  A  Life-Time '  were  the  last  poems  he  wrote. 

He  continued  his  editorial  work  till  the  last  year  of  his  life,  walking  daily  to  his  office 
and  back,  a  distance  of  three  miles.  Many  New  Yorkers  still  remember  his  impressive 
personality,  the  large,  high  forehead,  flowing  white  hair,  deep-set  clear-seeing  eyes 
under  shaggy  brows,  and  erect  carriage.  During  these  last  years  he  was  more  and  more 
in  request  as  a  public  speaker,  and  was  often  called  '  the  old  man  eloquent.'  Though  he 


658  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

was  not  an  orator  in  the  usual  sense  of  the  word,  his  addresses  were  always  impressive, 
appropriate,  and  full  of  well-knit  thought.  .The  best  have  been  preserved  in  his  prose 
works,  and  deal  with  Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  Shakspere,  Scott,  Burns,  Franklin,  Goethe, 
etc.  His  earlier  addresses,  especially  those  on  Irving  (1860)  and  Cooper  (1852),  must  not 
be  forgotten.  When  he  was  in  his  eighty-fourth  year  he  paid  a  noble  tribute  to  Mazzini 
in  an  oration  at  the  unveiling  of  the  statue  in  Central  Park.  He  was  somewhat  exhausted 
by  the  effort  and  by  the  heat  of  the  day  ;  and  on  returning  to  the  home  of  his  friend, 
General  Wilson,  he  fell  at  the  doorstep,  receiving  injuries  which  resulted  in  his  death, 
June  12,  1878. 

Bryant's  life  extended  from  the  administration  of  Washington  to  that  of  Hayes  —  from 
the  first  presidency  until  after  the  centennial  of  the  country.  For  more  than  fifty  years 
during  the  formative  period  of  the  nation,  he  was  a  strong  though  quiet  influence  in  its 
development.  It  is  therefore  impossible,  as  it  would  be  unjust,  to  '  judge  him  from  his 
life  apart.'  A  keen  judge,  and  never  too  generous  a  critic  —  Edgar  Allan  Poe  —  wrote 
•>f  him  so  early  as  1846  :  '  In  character,  no  man  stands  more  loftily  than  Bryant.  .  .  . 
His  soul  is  charity  itself,  in  all  respects  generous  and  noble.'  It  was  this  generous  and 
loble  character  that  Bryant  freely  gave  to  his  times.  He  entered  into  all  the  life  of  a 
great  material  city,  the  centre  of  the  country,  as  editor,  orator,  and  public  man.  His  life 
was  too  full  for  him  to  devote  much  of  it  to  poetry,  the  most  lasting  part  of  his  life-work, 
and  to  take  that  permanently  high  rank  among  American  poets  which  some  think  he 
might  have  attained.  Yet  it  is  doubtful  whether,  if  he  had  given  more  time  to  poetry,  his 
limitations  rather  than  his  power  might  not  have  become  more  evident.  His  was  not 
a  genius  of  overflowing  richness,  of  passion,  of  imagination.  His  range  is  narrow.  But 
within  his  range  he  is  supreme.  What  he  gives  us  is  the  expression  of  simple  and  noble 
thought  on  life,  and  still  more  on  death ;  and  our  first,  and  still  the  greatest,  expression  of 
American  Nature  in  poetry.  Whether  or  not  he  is  the  '  American  Wordsworth  '  (see 
Lowell's  Fable  for  Critics),  he  is  the  first  and  greatest  poet  of  Nature  in  America  ;  not  of 
larks  and  nightingales  and  English  primroses  would  he  write,  like  most  of  the  provincial 
poets  who  preceded  him,  but  of  the  bobolink,  and  the  veerie,  and  the  fringed  gentian  ;  not 
of  the  English  ponds  and  hills,  but  of  the  American  lakes  and  mountains.  This  was  Amer- 
ica's '  Declaration  of  Independence '  in  poetry.  Then  too,  in  the  highest  of  poetic  forms  in 
English,  he  is  perhaps  the  greatest  master  since  Milton.  The  blank  verse  of  even  Words- 
worth, Landor,  or  Browning  has  not  the  power  or  the  convoluted  richness  of  expression 
through  long  interwoven  rhythmic  periods  that  Bryant's  has.  In  '  Thanatopsis,'  the  '  In- 
scription for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood,' '  A  Winter  Piece,'  the  '  Hymn  to  Death,' '  Monument 
Mountain'  (the  best  of  his  poems  on  Indian  subjects),  'A  Forest  Hymn,'  'The  Prai- 
ries,' the  '  Antiquity  of  Freedom,'  and  the  <  Flood  of  Years,'  this  noble  rhythmic  form 
fitly  expresses  the  high  dignity  of  his  thought,  and  these  together  fitly  represent  his  char- 
acter and  his  life. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  was  born  at  Boston,  January  19,  1809,  in  the  same  year  as  Holmes 
and  Tennyson,  Lincoln  and  Gladstone,  Mendelssohn  and  Chopin,  and  Charles  Darwin.  On 
his  father's  side  he  came  of  a  good  Maryland  family,  going  back  to  John  Poe,  who 
emigrated  from  the  north  of  Ireland  to  Pennsylvania  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  soon  moved  to  Maryland.  The  poet's  grandfather,  General  David  Poe,  was 
Assistaut-Quartermaster-General  in  the  Revolution,  and  a  close  friend  of  Lafayette's. 
His  son,  David  Poe,  Jr.,  studied  law,  but  soon  abandoned  it  for  acting,  and  in  1805  mar- 
ried Elizabeth  Arnold,  who  had  been  born  and  brought  up  to  the  stage.  Her  mother  was 
an  English  actress,  and  she  had  been  first  married  to  C.  D.  Hopkins,  a  comedian,  who 
died  in  1805.  It  seems  that  David  Poe  proved  to  have  little  talent  as  an  actor,  and  his 
wife,  delicate,  beautiful,  strong-willed,  and  versatile,  was  the  support  of  the  family.  They 
had  three  children,  of  whom  Edgar  was  the  second.  The  little  troop  wandered  up  and 
down  from  Maine  to  So.  Carolina,  but  found  their  best  patrons  and  friends  in  Richmond. 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  659 

It  was  at  Richmond  that  Poe's  mother  died,  of  consumption,  in  December,  1811.  His 
father  had  probably  died  some  months  before. 

Poe  was  adopted  by  Mr.  John  Allan,  a  Scotch  tobacco  merchant  of  Richmond,  not  at 
all  a  rich  man  as  has  so  often  been  stated.  It  is  of  record  that  he  made  an  assignment 
for  the  benefit  of  creditors  in  1822.  In  1825,  however,  just  before  Poe  left  home  for  the 
University  of  Virginia,  Mr.  Allan  received  an  inheritance  from  his  uncle,  one  of  the  rich 
men  of  the  State,  which  made  him  well-to-do.  In  the  meantime  he  had  attempted  to 
extend  his  business  to  London.  The  most  important  result  of  this  was  that  he  took  Poe 
to  England  and  placed  him  for  five  years  in  the  Manor  House  School,  Stoke-Newington. 
Poe's  story  '  William  Wilson '  is  full  of  reminiscences  from  this  period,  and  much  of 
his  work  is  colored  by  it.  Probably  on  some  vacation  trip  to  Scotland  with  his  adopted 
parents  he  saw  that  lake  among  the  hills  which  is  the  subject  of  one  of  his  earliest  yet 
most  characteristic  poems  —  one  of  those  which  he  says  were  written  before  he  was  twelve 
years  old  :  — 

THE   LAKE 

In  youth's  spring  it  was  my  lot 

To  haunt  of  the  wide  earth  a  spot 

The  which  I  could  not  love  the  less  ; 

So  lovely  was  the  loneliness 

Of  a  wild  lake,  with  black  rock  bound, 

And  the  tall  pines  that  tower'd  around. 

But  when  the  night  had  thrown  her  pall 

Upon  that  spot  —  as  upon  all, 

And  the  wind  would  pass  me  by 

In  its  stilly  melody, 

My  infant  spirit  would  awake 

To  the  terror  of  the  lone  lake. 

Yet  that  terror  was  not  fright  — 

But  a  tremulous  delight, 

And  a  feeling  undefined, 

Springing  from  a  darken'd  mind. 

Death  was  in  the  poison'd  wave 

And  in  its  gulf  a  fitting  grave 

For  him  who  thence  could  solace  bring 

To  his  dark  imagining  ; 

Whose  wildering  thought  could  even  make 

An  Eden  of  that  dim  lake. 

The  poem  was  published  in  this  form  in  his  first  volume,  when  he  was  eighteen  years  old, 
and  was  retained  in  every  subsequent  edition  of  his  poems,  in  the  edition  of  1831  being 
inserted  as  a  part  of  '  Tamerlane.'  In  the  successive  editions  he  made  less  changes  in  this 
than  in  any  other  of  his  earliest  poems.  The  memory  of  a  mystic  lake  of  poisoned  waves 
'  with  black  rock  bound '  reappears  often  in  others  of  his  works,  until  it  becomes  the 
*  dim  lake  of  Auber '  in  his  greatest  poem.  The  love  of  loneliness  and  of  night,  the 
tremulous  delight  in  terror,  the  thought  of  a  darkened  mind  that  seeks  for  death  and 
finds  in  it  an  Eden,  all  remain  characteristic  of  his  later  writing. 

In  1820  the  Allans  returned  to  Richmond,  and  until  1825  Poe  was  at  school  there ;  he 
distinguished  himself  in  athletics  (especially  swimming),  in  declamation,  and  in  French. 
It  was  natural  enough  that  his  first  school-boy  love  should  be  for  a  woman  older  than 
himself,  but  perhaps  hardly  natural  that  this  should  be  the  mother  of  one  of  his  school- 
mates, and  certainly  not  so  that  a  healthy  boy  should  haunt  her  grave  for  months,  as  is 
recorded  of  Poe  ;  for  she  died  in  1824,  the  first  of  his  many  Helens  and  Lenores.  Just 
before  going  away  to  the  University  he  had  a  somewhat  more  normal  love  affair  with  a 
girl  nearly  two  years  younger  than  he  (he  was  sixteen  himself),  a  Miss  Royster.  They 
became  '  engaged,'  at  least  according  to  the  lady's  later  account.  Poe  wrote  to  her  from 
the  University)  but  the  letters  were  intercepted  by  her  father,  and  she  was  soon  married 
to  a  Mr.  Shelton.  Perhaps  in  this  simple  story  is  'to  be  found  the  whole  basis  of  Poe's 
'  Tamerlane,'  almost  certainly  written  during  the  following  year. 

The  University  of  Virginia  had  been  opened  under  Jefferson's  patronage  in  March, 
1825.  Poe  registered  as  a  student  there  on  February  14,  1826,  and  remained  for  one 
year.  During  this  time  he  obtained  distinction  in  Latin,  French,  and  Italian,  and  was 


660  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

fairly  regular  in  his  attendance,  but  sometimes  (not  habitually)  drank,  and  gambled  with 
passionate  recklessness.  His  gambling  debts  at  the  end  of  the  year  are  said  to  have  been 
about  $2000.  Mr.  Allan  refused  to  pay  these  debts  of  honor,  withdrew  Poe  from  the  Uni- 
versity, and  set  him  to  work  at  a  desk  in  his  own  counting-room. 

Poe  did  not  submit  to  this  employment  long,  but  ran  away,  somehow  reached  Boston, 
and  soon  published  there  (1827)  his  first  volume:  Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems,  By  a  Bos- 
tonian.  (See  note  1  on  page  36,  and  note  2  on  page  39.)  By  the  time  the  book  was  pub- 
lished, Poe,  perhaps  unable  to  find  any  other  means  of  subsistence,  had  already  (May  26, 
1827)  enlisted  in  the  United  States  army,  under  the  name  of  Edgar  A.  Perry.  He  served  for 
nearly  two  years.  He  seems  to  have  served  faithfully;  on  January  1,  1829,  he  was  pro- 
moted for  merit  to  be  Sergeant-Major.  Early  in  1829  Mrs.  Allan  died.  Poe  had  been 
recalled  to  Richmond  to  see  her,  but  arrived  too  late.  There  was,  however,  a  partial  re- 
conciliation with  Mr.  Allan,  who  obtained  a  substitute  for  him  in  the  army,  and  after 
some  effort  secured  his  nomination  to  West  Point. 

While  waiting  for  this  appointment  he  had  published  at  Richmond  (1829)  Al  Aaraaf, 
Tamerlane,  and  Minor  Poems.  For  this  volume  he  re-wrote,  condensed,  and  for  the  most 
part  greatly  improved  the  '  Tamerlane.'  (See  the  notes  on  pages  37  and  38.)  '  Al 
Aaraaf '  is  on  the  whole  a  less  successful  production  than  '  Tamerlane.'  In  '  Tamer- 
lane '  he  had  deplored  the  triumph  of  ambition  over  love,  in  '  Al  Aaraaf '  he  seems  to 
be  celebrating  the  claims  of  beauty  as  superior  to  all  others,  even  those  of  love.  The 
poem,  however,  has  not,  as  '  Tamerlane  '  has,  any  clear  thread  of  narrative  on  which  to 
string  its  ideas  and  pictures,  and  even  these  are  entirely  vague  and  almost  meaningless. 
'  Al  Aaraaf '  seems  to  show  the  influence  of  Shelley,  as  '  Tamerlane  '  (in  the  first  form 
of  which  there  occurs,  unquoted,  '  A  sound  of  revelry  by  night ')  shows  that  of  Byron. 
'  Al  Aaraaf '  also  suffers  from  the  fact  that  Poe  never  took  the  time  to  re-write  it  as  he 
did  '  Tamerlane.'  There  is  in  it,  however,  one  supremely  beautiful  '  Burst  of  Melody ' 
(as  Professor  Trent  has  entitled  it  in  his  Selections  from  Poe),  the  song  to  Ligeia.  There 

are  also  in  the  volume  of  1829  two  exquisite  lyrics,  both  entitled  '  To ,'  and  an  early 

form  of  the  poem  '  A  Dream  within  a  Dream.'  When  we  remember  that  Poe  was  barely 
twenty  when  this  volume  was  published,  and  that  Keats  was  twenty-two  when  his  first 
volume  (not  containing  any  of  his  greatest  work  except  the  '  Sonnet  on  Chapman's 
Homer ')  appeared,  we  feel  that  Lowell  was  almost  justified  in  writing  to  Poe  (May  8, 
1843)  :  '  Your  early  poems  display  a  maturity  which  astonished  me,  and  I  recollect  no 
individual  (and  I  believe  I  have  read  all  the  poetry  that  ever  was  written)  whose  early 
poems  were  anything  like  as  good.' 

Poe  entered  West  Point  July  1,  1830.  His  work  there  was  at  first  fairly  good.  He 
ranked  third  in  French  and  seventeenth  in  mathematics,  in  a  class  of  eighty-seven.  Late 
in  this  year  Mr.  Allan  married  again,  and  Poe  seems  to  have  felt  that  lie  had  no  more  to 
expect  from  him  in  the  way  of  support  or  inheritance.  In  January  of  1831  he  deliberately 
neglected  all  duties  at  the  academy  for  two  weeks,  was  qourt-marshalled,  and  dismissed. 

'  When  in  doubt,  publish  a  volume  of  poems,'  seems,  says  some  one,  to  have  been  the 
mle  of  Poe's  life.  After  his  dismissal  from  West  Point,  he  went  to  New  York  am? 
brought  out  his  third  volume,  entitled  simply  Poems.  This  volume  contained  (and  Po( 
was  still  only  twenty-two  years  old)  what  is,  perhaps,  his  most  beautiful  lyric,  the  first 
<  To  Helen,'  and  the  poems  '  Israfel,'  '  The  City  in  the  Sea,'  '  The  Sleeper,'  <  Lenore  ' 
in  its  earliest  form,  and  '  The  Valley  of  Unrest.'  His  fellow  cadets  at  West  Point,  to 
whom  he  dedicated  the  volume,  and  through  whose  subscriptions  he  had  been  enabled  to 
publish  it,  were  naturally  disappointed  at  receiving  such  poems  as  these,  instead  of  the 
satirical  verses  on  their  professors  which  they  had  expected. 

For  the  next  two  years  practically  nothing  is  known  of  Poe's  life.  We  find  him  in  Bal- 
timore in  1833,  living  with  .his  father's  sister,  Mrs.  Clemm.  He  had  written  six  Tales  of 
the  Folio  Club,  and  one  of  these,  '  The  Manuscript  found  in  a  Bottle,'  won  him  a  prize  of 
one  hundred  dollars  and  the  friendship  of  John  P.  Kennedy.  The  second  prize  of  fifty 
dollars,  offered  for  the  best  poem  submitted,  would  have  been  awarded  to  Poe's  '  Coli- 
seum,' except  that  the  judges  felt  unwilling  to  give  both  prizes  to  one  competitor.  This 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  661 


success  gave  Poe  a  practical  start  in  literature,  or  rather  journalism,  and  Mr.  Kennedy 
secured  for  him  a  position  on  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  published  at  Richmond. 

Meanwhile  there  had  come  to  Poe  the  one  genuine,  deep,  and  lasting  love  of  his 
lifetime,  that  for  his  child-cousin,  Virginia  Clemm.  A  license  for  marriage  was  obtained 
on  September  22,  1834,  when  Virginia  was  barely  twelve  years  old.  There  seems  to  have 
been  no  marriage  at  this  time.  In  any  case,  after  Poe  moved  to  Richmond  a  new  license 
was  obtained,  in  May,  1836,  and  the  marriage  took  place,  while  Virginia  was  still  only  in 
her  fourteenth  year. 

Poe  showed  great  ability  as  an  editor  and  journalistic  writer.  He  made  the  magazine 
famous,  and  greatly  increased  its  circulation.  But  he  was  irregular  in  his  habits  and  not 
to  be  depended  upon.  He  had  not  learned  to  master  the  tendency  against  which  he  later 
struggled  —  at  least  for  many  months  and  even  years  of  his  life  —  so  successfully.  '  No 
man  is  safe,'  his  employer  wrote  to  him,  '  that  drinks  before  breakfast.'  He  lost  his 
position  in  January,  1837,  went  to  New  York,  where  he  published  in  1838  the  Narrative 
of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym,  and  then  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  lived  for  the  next  six  years. 

During  these  years  he  did  a  great  amount  of  literary  hack-work,  and  did  it  well,  and 
also  wrote  some  of  his  best  stories  and  criticism.  His  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Ara- 
besque were  published,  in  two  volumes,  at  the  end  of  1839  (dated  1840).  He  was  editor 
for  a  while  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  and  later  of  Graham's  Magazine,  two  of  the  most 
important  periodicals  of  the  time.  It  has  repeatedly  been  assumed  that  he  lost  his  positions 
on  both  these  magazines  through  incapacity  caused  by  drinking,  but  the  weight  of  evidence 
seems  to  disprove  this.  Mrs.  Clemm  stated  positively,  speaking  of  the  period  from  1837 
to  1841,  that  '  for  years  I  know  he  did  not  taste  even  a  glass  of  wine '  (Harrison's  Life 
of  Poe,  p.  161),  and  this  testimony  is  so  strongly  confirmed  by  others  who  knew  him  well 
during  this  time,  that  we  may  perhaps  accept  fully  his  own  statement  of  the  matter  as 
made  in  a  letter  of  1841  :  '  At  no  period  of  my  life  was  I  ever  what  men  call  intemper- 
ate, —  I  never  was  in  the  habit  of  intoxication.  .  .  .  But,  for  a  period,  while  I  resided  in 
Richmond  and  edited  the  Messenger,  I  certainly  did  give  way,  at  long  intervals,  to  the 
temptation  held  out  on  all  sides  by  the  spirit  of  Southern  conviviality.  My  sensitive  tem- 
perament could  not  stand  an  excitement  which  was  an  every-day  matter  to  my  companions, 
—  in  short  it  sometimes  happened  that  I  was  completely  intoxicated.  For  some  days  after 
each  excess  I  was  invariably  confined  to  bed.  But  it  is  now  quite  four  years  since  I  have 
abandoned  every  kind  of  alcoholic  drink  —  four  years,  with  the  exception  of  a  single 
deviation.  .  .  .' 

A  few  facts  seem  now  to  be  clearly  established  after  the  years  of  controversy  over  this 
disagreeable  question.  It  is  certain  that  Poe  was  not,  as  has  so  often  been  stated,  an 
abandoned  or  habitual  drunkard.  It  is  also  certain  that  the  effect  of  even  small  quan- 
tities of  alcohol  was,  in  his  case,  especially  severe  ;  that  he  was  to  some  extent  the 
victim  of  a  hereditary  tendency  ('  There  is  one  thing,'  his  cousin  William  Poe  wrote  to 
him,  '  I  am  anxious  to  caution  you  against,  and  which  has  been  a  great  enemy  to  our 
family  ...  a  too  free  use  of  the  bottle  ') ;  and  that  the  surroundings  of  his  early  life 
and  the  habits  of  the  University  and  of  West  Point  in  those  times  did  much  to  strengthen 
this  tendency.  It  is  also  certain,  and  this  has  not  been  sufficiently  recognized,  that  for 
many  years  Poe  struggled  manfully  against  this  tendency,  and  succeeded,  in  spite  of  occa- 
sional relapses,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  kinds  of  difficulties,  discouragements,  anxiety, 
poverty,  and  physical  weakness,  in  doing  an  amount  of  work,  and  of  highly  intellectual 
work,  that  would  have  been  impossible  for  a  man  so  weak  as  he  has  usually  been  repre- 
sented. 

Two  strong  motives  governed  his  life,  so  far  as  it  could  be  governed  :  his  devotion  to 
his  beautiful  child-wife  and  to  her  mother,  whom  he  calls  his  '  more  than  mother '  in  the 
beautiful  sonnet  which  is  the  simple  expression  of  his  genuine  feeling  for  her  ;  and  his 
passionate  desire  for  literary  fame,  which,  at  its  worst,  showed  itself  in  petty  envy  and 
carping  criticism  of  his  contemporaries,  but  which,  at  its  best,  became  a  noble  devotion 
to  the  ideal  of  beauty. 

Every  point  in  Poe's  life  and  character  has  been  the  subject  of  controversy  and  con- 


662  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

flicting  statements,  except  one,  —  the  genuineness,  simplicity,  and,  until  his  wife's  death, 
constancy,  of  his  devotion  to  the  two  women  who  made  his  home.  '  I  shall  never 
forget,'  wrote  the  owner  of  Graham's  Magazine,  within  a  year  after  Foe's  death,  when 
the  attacks  upon  him  were  bitterest,  'how  solicitous  of  their  happiness  lie  was.  .  .  . 
His  whole  efforts  seemed  to  be  to  procure  the  comfort  and  welfare  of  his  home.  Ex- 
cept for  their  happiness,  and  the  natural  ambition  of  having  a  magazine  of  his  own,  I 
never  heard  him  deplore  the  want  of  wealth.  .  .  .  His  love  for  his  wife  was  a  sort  of 
rapturous  worship  of  the  spirit  of  beauty,  which  he  felt  was  fading  before  his  eyes.  I 
have  seen  him  hovering  around  her  when  she  was  ill,  with  all  the  fond  fear  and  tender 
anxiety  of  a  mother  for  her  first-born,  —  her  slightest  cough  causing  in  him  a  shudder, 
a  breast  chill,  that  was  visible.  I  rode  out  one  summer  evening  with  them,  and  the 
remembrance  of  his  watchful  eyes,  eagerly  bent  upon  the  slightest  change  of  hue  in  that 
loved  face,  haunts  me  yet  as  the  memory  of  a  sad  strain.' 

Virginia  is  described  as  of  wonderful  delicate  loveliness,  like  that  of  Ligeia.  She 
was  a  beautiful  singer.  In  1842,  while  singing  for  her  husband,  she  broke  a  blood 
vessel  in  her  throat,  and  this  resulted  in  serious  hemorrhages,  which  afterward  recurred 
often,  and  sometimes  brought  her  almost  to  the  point  of  death.  It  was  to  Poe  as  if  she 
had  died  many  times,  —  as  often,  even,  as  he  has  expressed  in  his  poetry  that  one  theme 
which  he  calls  the  highest  of  all,  the  death  of  a  beautiful  woman. 

Early  in  1844  the  little  family  moved  to  New  York,  Poe  still  hoping  to  found  there 
a  magazine  of  his  own.  For  some  time  he  worked  on  the  staff  of  the  Evening  Mirror, 
under  N.  P.  Willis,  whose  description  of  his  faithfulness,  industry,  and  courtesy  must 
not  be  overlooked  by  any  one  trying  to  estimate  his  character  during  these  years.  1845 
was  the  year  that  gave  Poe  his  national  reputation.  '  The  Raven'  appeared  in  the 
Evening  Mirror  on  January  29,  and  was  immediately  copied  by  newspapers  throughout 
the  country,  just  as  the  first  of  Lowell's  Biglow  Papers  was  to  be,  a  little  more  than  a  year 
later.  His  Tales  were  published  by  Wiley  and  Putnam,  and  had  considerable  success. 
He  became  associate-editor  of  the  Broadway  Journal,  in  which  he  republished,  in  their 
final  perfected  form,  many  of  his  earlier  poems.  And  finally,  all  the  poems  which  he 
wished  to  preserve  were  collected  and  published,  toward  the  end  of  the  year,  in  a  volume 
entitled  The  Raven  and  Other  Poems. 

Meantime,  Poe  was  involved  in  many  bitter  controversies,  through  his  severe  criticism 
of  his  contemporaries.  The  Broadway  Journal,  of  which  he  had  finally  obtained  exclu- 
sive control  in  October,  1845,  failed  to  prove  a  financial  success,  and  involved  him  in 
considerable  debt ;  its  publication  had  to  be  discontinued  at  the  end  of  the  year. 
Early  in  1846  Poe  moved,  with  his  family,  to  the  cottage  at  Fordham,  in  what  is  now  the 
Borough  of  the  Bronx,  New  York  City.  Here  the  little  family  lived  through  a  year  of 
wretchedness.  Poe's  strength,  both  of  body  and  of  character,  was  seriously  impaired. 
Virginia's  illness  became  more  and  more  serious,  until  she  died  on  January  30,  1847. 
Poe  was  seriously  ill  for  a  long  time,  but  gradually  recovered.  It  was  at  the  end  of  this 
'  most  immemorial  year  '  that  he  wrote  his  '  Ulalume.' 

In  the  year  and  a  half  that  followed,  all  Poe's  weaknesses  were  accentuated,  and  a  new 
weakness,  which  is  comprehensible,  but  not  pleasant  to  contemplate,  was  added,  in  his 
abject  appeal  for  the  sympathy  and  sometimes  for  the  hand  of  one  woman  after  another. 
Yet  his  intellect  and  genius  shone  out  at  intervals  almost  more  brightly  than  before. 
During  this  time  he  wrote  '  Eureka'  and  '  The  Bells,'  the  strange  and  wonderful  lyric 
'For  Annie,'  and  '  Annabel  Lee'  —  the  last  certainly  a  reminiscence  of  his  child-wife 
Virginia.  He  became  engaged  to  Sarah  Helen  Whitman,  a  poetess  of  extreme  romantic 
temperament,  his  first  meeting  with  whom  is  described  in  the  second  '  To  Helen  ; '  but  the 
engagement  was  broken  through  the  efforts  of  her  friends.  Her  loyal  defence  of  Poe 
against  his  critics  after  his  death  is  to  be  remembered.  Poe  was  in  Richmond  in  1848, 
and  again  in  1849,  hoping  to  get  help  there  for  the  establishment  of  the  new  magazine 
which  he  was  still  planning;  he  found  there  the  Mrs.  Shelton  who,  as  Miss  Royster,  had 
been  his  first  love,  and  who  was  now  a  widow.  He  became  engaged  to  her,  his  friends  in 
Richmond  raised  a  fund  to  help  him  start  anew  in  life,  and  he  left  Richmond  on  Sep- 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON  663 

tember  30,  to  return  to  New  York  and  settle  up  his  affairs.  It  will  never  be  known  what 
happened  on  the  following  days,  but  he  was  found,  October  3,  in  the  back  room  of  a  saloon 
in  Baltimore  which  was  being  used  as  a  polling  place.  It  has  been  suggested  that  he  was 
drugged  by  an  electioneering  gang  and  made  to  serve  as  a  repeater;  and  also  that  he  had 
been  drugged  by  robbers,  for  his  money  was  gone.  He  was  taken  to  a  hospital,  and  died 
there,  four  days  later,  on  Sunday,  October  7,  without  having  recovered  consciousness. 
The  attending  physician  testified  that  he  was  not  under  the  influence  of  liquor,  but  this 
does  not  seem  to  be  important,  though  it  may  refute  the  repeated  statement  that  his 
death  was  caused  by  delirium  tremens. 

Poe's  character  has  often  been  judged  harshly,  but  the  case  is  one  rather  for  human 
pity  than  for  harsh  judgment.  His  life  was  a  tragedy,  and  in  part  a  tragedy  of  hereditary 
fate,  against  which  his  human  will  struggled  as  best  it  could.  He  should  be  judged  with 
the  same  charity  which  his  New  England  contemporaries  showed  in  their  many  beautiful 
tributes  to  Burns,  whose  life  and  character  have  points  of  resemblance  with  Poe's,  though 
Burns's  poetry  is  so  much  more  human  and  less  strange. 

In  many  ways  Poe  is  unique  among  the  chief  American  poets  :  in  his  life,  for  he  is  the  only 
one  who  lived  in  extreme  povertv  and  loneliness  ;  the  only  one  of  weak  character  and  ill- 
repute  ;  the  only  one  (except  Lanier)  who  died  young.  He  is  unique  in  his  hatred  of  com- 
monplace and  of  convention,  in  his  intense  devotion  to  poetry,  in  his  love  of  mere  music 
in  verse,  in  his  power  to  express  emotion  and  his  inability  to  express  character,  in  his 
comparative  blindness  to  Nature  (except  that  strange  unreal  region  of  Nature  which  he 
creates  for  himself  '  out  of  place,  out  of  time '),  in  his  exaltation  of  love,  in  his  strange 
visionary  conceptions  of  death.  He  is  the  only  American  who  has  been  intensely  a  poet,  and 
the  only  American  poet  (as  Hawthorne  is  our  only  prose  writer)  who  can  justly  be  said, 
in  any  strict  and  narrow  use  of  the  word,  to  have  had  genius. 

RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

THE  story  of  Emerson's  life,  so  far  as  its  external  events  are  related  to  his  poetry,  can 
be  told  briefly.  He  was  the  last  of  nine  successive  generations  of  ministers.  Thomas 
Emerson  emigrated  from  England  to  Ipswich,  Mass.,  about  1635.  At  about  the  same  time, 
Emerson's  first  American  ancestor  in  another  line,  Peter  Bulkeley  (see  the  beginning  of 
'  Hamatreya  '),  settled  in  Concord  as  the  first  minister  of  that  parish.  Emerson's  grand- 
father, William  Emerson,  was  minister  in  Concord  at  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution,  and 
on  April  19,  1775,  urged  the  minute-men  to  stand  their  ground  near  his  parsonage,  the 
'  Old  Manse.'  In  1776  he  left  Concord  to  join  the  troops  at  Ticonderoga,  but  caught  a 
fever  on  his  way  there,  and  died  in  the  same  year.  Emerson's  father  was  minister  of  the 
First  Church,  Boston,  which  had  already  become  Unitarian. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  was  born  in  Boston,  May  25, 1803.  His  father  died  when  he  was 
eight  years  old,  and  the  family  was  left  in  comparative  poverty.  Yet  his  mother,  with 
devoted  help  from  her  sons,  succeeded  in  obtaining  an  education  for  all  of  them.  His 
eldest  brother,  William,  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1818,  and  studied  for  two  years  in 
Germany.  Ralph  Waldo  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1821,  and  his  younger  brothers,  Edward 
and  Charles,  in  1824  and  1828. 

Ralph  was  prepared  for  Harvard  at  the  Boston  Latin  School,  where,  in  his  eleventh 
year,  he  made  a  brief  verse  translation  from  Virgil's  Eclogues,  which  has  been  preserved 
and  published.  He  entered  college  in  1817,  with  the  appointment  of  '  President's  Fresh- 
man,' receiving  free  lodging  for  the  work  of  carrying  official  messages  ;  and  he  saved 
three-fourths  of  the  cost  of  his  board  by  waiting  at  table  in  the  college  Commons,  and  in 
the  last  years  of  his  course  earned  something  by  tutoring.  He  did  not  especially  distin- 
guish himself  in  his  studies,  being  generally  thought  the  least  brilliant  of  the  brothers, 
but  he  was  well  liked  by  both  teachers  and  students,  and  was  elected  class  poet  at  the 
end  of  his  course,  as  Lowell  was  later.  He  was  only  eighteen  when  he  graduated,  but  im- 
mediately began  work  as  a  school-teacher,  and  when  his  older  brother,  William,  went  to 


664  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

Germany,  took  charge  of  his  school  for  young  ladies  in  Boston.  He  wrote  long  after : 
'  I  was  nineteen,  had  grown  up  without  sisters,  and,  in  my  solitary  and  secluded  way  of 
living,  had  no  acquaintance  with  girls.  I  still  recall  my  terrors  at  entering  the  school.' 
It  was  on  the  occasion  of  his  weekly  escape  from  these  '  terrors '  to  his  home  in  Roxbury, 
which  was  then  the  country  (and  not  at  his  retirement  to  Concord,  as  has  often  been  said), 
that  he  wrote  the  poem  '  Good-bye,  proud  world.' 

He  soon  entered  the  Divinity  School  at  Harvard,  where  he  studied  under  Dr.  W.  E. 
Channing  and  Professor  Andrews  Norton  ;  and  was  '  approbated  to  preach  '  in  October. 
1826.  He  had  no  settled  parish,  and  had  not  as  yet  much  confidence  in  himself,  his  doc- 
trines, or  his  power  to  speak.  '  Whatever  Heaven  has  given  me  or  withheld,'  he  wrote  at 
this  time,  '  my  feelings,  or  the  expression  of  them,  is  very  cold,  my  understanding  and  my 
tongue  slow  and  ineffective.'  His  feelings  were  soon  to  be  roused  and  quickened,  however, 
and  his  expression  vivified.  In  December,  1827,  he  was  preaching  at  Concord,  N.  H., 
and  met  there  Miss  Ellen  Tucker,  then  sixteen  years  old,  to  whom  he  became  engaged 
just  a  year  later.  Of  the  beautiful  lyrics  written  for  her,  one,  beginning  '  And  Ellen,  when 
khe  graybeard  years,'  which  was  written  in  1829,  but  remained  unpublished  for  seventy-- 
five years,  deserves  to  stand  beside  anything  even  of  Lander's  for  its  simplicity  and  con- 
densation, and  for  that  peculiar  feeling  of  the  eternal  which  a  brief  and  perfect  poem 
can  give. 

In  1829  he  was  appointed  assistant  pastor  of  the  Hanover  Street  Church,  Boston  (the 
church  of  the  Mathers).  In  September  he  was  married.  His  wife  was  already  frail  from 
consumption,  and  she  died  two  years  later.  Emerson  found  even  the  liberal  doctrines  and 
simple  forms  of  the  Unitarian  Church  somewhat  too  strict  for  him,  and  felt  himself 
compelled,  in  the  following  year,  1832,  to  give  up  his  pastorate.  He  still  preached  occa- 
sionally for  a  few  years,  but  for  the  rest  of  his  life  the  public  lecture  platform  was  his 
chief  pulpit ;  for  he  never  ceased  to  be,  in  a  way,  a  preacher. 

In  December,  1832,  Emerson  sailed  for  Europe,  going  by  the  then  unusual  southern 
route,  and  visited  first  Sicily  and  Italy.  The  fragments  '  Written  in  Naples,'  and 
'  Written  at  Rome,'  are  significant  of  his  mood  and  thoughts  at  this  time.  The  first,  with 


its  remembrance  of 


beauty  in  the  fogs 
Of  close  low  pinewoods  in  a  river  town, 


foreshadows  the  idea  which  is  primarily  Emerson's,  but  for  which  Whittier  found  its 
most  perfect  expression  in  his 

He  who  wanders  widest,  lifts 

No  more  of  Beauty's  jealous  veils 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 

and  reminds  us  that  Emerson  was  to  be  the  poet  of  '  Woodnotes,'  and,  after  Bryant,  the 
chief  poet  of  Nature  in  America,  with  its  own  peculiar  and  distinctive  beauties.  The  sec- 
ond, '  Written  at  Rome,'  with  its 

And  ever  in  the  strife  of  your  own  thoughts 
Obey  the  nobler  impulse  ;  that  is  Rome, 

shows  that  Emerson  was  already  on  the  track  of  his  answer  to  the  Sphinx's  riddle. 

He  sought  in  Europe  not  things  but  men,  not  relics  of  the  past  but  living  thoughts. 
For  him  Florence  seems  to  have  meant  Landor,  in  his  villa  at  the  foot  of  the  Fiesolan 
hill.  He  passed  through  France  uncomprehending,  thinking  it  a  land  '  where  poet  never 
grew,'  and  went  to  visit  the  almost  unknown  Carlyle  on  his  Scotch  hillside,  and  Words- 
worth by  bis  English  Lakes.  His  friendship  for  Carlyle  lasted  till  the  end  of  his  life,  and 
he  did  Carlyle  great  service  in  introducing  his  works  to  America,  taking  charge  of  all 
the  material  details  of  their  publication  here.  He  seems  to  have  been  much  amused  at 
first  to  see  Wordsworth  pause  in  his  garden  walks  and  stand  apart  to  declaim  his  own  son- 
nets, but  on  second  thought  recollected  that  that  was  what  he  had  come  for,  and  listened 
with  reverence. 

On  his  return,  Emerson  settled  in  Concord.    He  had  been  through  his  Lehrjahre  and 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON  665 

Wanderjahre,  had  found  his  own  place,  intellectually  and  spiritually,  in  the  universe,  and 
had  acquired  confidence  in  his  own  thought  and  his  right  and  power  to  deliver  a  message 
to  the  world.  He  now  abandoned,  as  unimportant,  the  negative  side  of  his  earlier  Uni- 
tarianism  and  of  his  revolt  from  the  forms  and  formal  beliefs  even  of  Unitarianism  it- 
self; and  insisted  on  what  is  the  positive  side  of  Unitarianism,  and,  more  broadly,  of 
idealistic  philosophy,  —  the  thought  that  every  man  (as  well  as  the  Christ,  though  not  in 
the  same  degree)  has  in  himself  something  of  the  divine,  is  himself  a  part  of  the  '  World- 
Soul,'  and  therefore  has  within  himself,  and  himself  is,  the  measure  of  all  things  ;  and 
so  can  meet  fearlessly  all  the  Sphinx-riddles  of  the  universe.  The  other  side  of  this  con- 
ception is  his  thought  that  all  Nature  is  but  another  manifestation,  or  another  part  of  the 
same  manifestation,  of  the  '  World-Soul  ;  '  and  that  Nature  is  thus  most  closely  related  to 
the  central  reality  in  man.  Hardly  more  than  this  need  be  said,  I  think,  in  elucidation 
of  the  so-called  obscure  and  mystic  poems  of  Emerson,  and  in  elementary  statement  of 
his  much-discussed  '  transcendentalism.' 

Strong  in  this  belief  in  the  intellectual  independence  of  himself  and  of  every  individual 
man,  Emerson  prepared  that  famous  address  on  '  The  American  Scholar,'  which  was 
given  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  of  Harvard  University  in  1837.  That  and  his  little 
book  called  Nature,  published  in  the  previous  year,  give  us  the  two  sides  of  his  thought 
just  stated.  In  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  address,  however,  he  stated  this  thought  more  espe- 
cially as  related  to  the  intellectual  attitude  of  America  in  1837,  and  as  a  protest  against  its 
provincialism.  '  Our  day  of  dependence,  our  long  apprenticeship  to  the  learning  of  other 
lands,  draws  to  a  close  .  .  .  We  will  walk  on  our  own  feet  ;  we  will  work  with  our  own 
hands  ;  we  will  speak  our  own  minds  ...  a  nation  of  men  will  for  the  first  time  exist,  be- 
cause each  believes  himself  inspired  by  the  Divine  Will,  which  also  inspires  all  men.'  This 
address  was  America's  Declaration  of  Independence  in  the  intellectual  life.  His  Divinity 
School  address,  in  the  following  year,  was  a  spiritual  declaration  of  independence  :  '  Let  me 
admonish  you,  first  of  all,  to  go  alone  ;  to  refuse  the  good  models,  even  those  which  are  sacred 
in  the  imagination  of  men,  and  dare  to  love  God  without  mediator  or  veil  .  .  .  Thank  God 
for  these  good  men,  but  say,  "  I  am  also  a  man."  .  .  .  Yourself  a  new-born  bard  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,  cast  behind  you  all  conformity,  and  acquaint  yourself  at  first  hand  with  the 
Deity.'  These  two  addresses  aroused  great  opposition,  but  Emerson  entirely  disregarded 
it,  and  went  quietly  on  his  way.  He  seems  to  have  regretted  it  only  so  far  as  he  felt  that 
opposition  to  him  personally  might  injure  the  success  in  America  of  Carlyle's  works,  for 
which  he  stood  sponsor. 

In  the  years  of  this  (as  it  then  seemed)  revolutionary  thinking  and  speaking,  Emer- 
son was  living  a  quiet,  simple,  practical  life  at  Concord,  taking  his  part  in  the  affairs  of 
the  village,  even  accepting  an  election  as  hog-reeve  of  the  township,  delivering  the 
Bi-Centennial  Address  in  1835,  and  writing  the  Hymn  for  the  Completion  of  the  Battle 
Monument  in  1837.  In  1834  his  brother  Edward  died,  and  in  1836  his  youngest  brother, 
Charles.  It  was  in  1838,  '  at  the  mid-point  of  life's  pathway,'  as  Dante  expresses  it  in  the 
first  line  of  his  Divina  Commedia,  that  Emerson  wrote  the  beautiful  '  Dirge  '  for  them  :  — 

I  reached  the  middle  of  the  mount 

Up  which  the  incarnate  soul  must  climb, 
And  paused  for  them,  and  looked  around, 

With  me  who  walked  through  space  and  time. 

Five  rosy  boys  with  morning  light 

Had  leaped  from  one  fair  mother's  anna, 
Fronted  the  sun  with  hope  as  bright, 

And  greeted  God  with  childhood's  psalms. 

The  winding  Concord  gleamed  below, 
Pouring  as  wide  a  flood 


As  when  my  brothers,  long  ago, 
me  with  me  to  the  wood. 


Came 


But  they  are  gone,  —  the  holy  ones 
Who  trod  with  me  this  lovely  vale; 

The  strong,  star-bright  companions 
Are  silent,  low,  and  pale. 


666  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

My  good,  my  noble,  in  their  prime, 

Who  wade  this  world  the  least  it  was, 
Who  learned  with  me  the  lore  of  time, 

Who  loved  this  dwelling-place  ! 

They  took  this  valley  for  their  toy, 

They  played  with  it  in  every  mood ; 
A  cell  for  prayer,  a  hall  for  joy,  — 

They  treated  Nature  as  they  would. 

They  colored  the  horizon  round ; 

Stars  flamed  and  faded  as  they  bade, 
All  echoes  hearkened  for  their  sound,  — 

They  made  the  woodlands  glad  or  mad. 

I  touch  this  flower  of  silken  leaf, 

Which  once  our  childhood  knew  ; 
Its  soft  leaves  wound  me  with  a  grief 

Whose  balsam  never  grew. 

From  this  time  on,  Emerson's  life  was  diversified  only  by  home  joys  and  sorrows.  He 
married  in  1835  Miss  Lidian  Jackson  of  Plymouth.  In  October,  1836,  was  born  the 
beautiful  boy  who  died  in  January,  1842,  the  '  wondrous  child '  of  his  '  Threnody.'  Some 
of  his  most  important  poems  were  published  in  the  Dial  in  1840  and  1841,  and  he  was 
editor  of  that  short-lived  transcendentalist  magazine  from  1842  to  1844.  The  first  series 
of  his  Essays  was  published  in  1841,  the  second  in  1844,  the  second  edition  of  Nature  in 
1849,  Representative  Men  in  1850,  and  English  Traits  in  1856.  He  had  taken  a  second  brief 
trip  to  Europe  in  1847^48.  The  only  important  collections  of  his  verse  during  his  life- 
time were  the  Poems  of  1846  (dated  1847),  May  Day  and  Other  Pieces,  1867,  and  a  selec- 
tion in  the  Little  Classics  edition,  1876,  including  a  few  poems  not  previously  collected.  The 
editions  of  the  Poems,  1883,  and  1904  (Centenary  Edition},  both  contain  very  important 
additions.  His  lecture  field  was  extended  in  1843  to  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  in  1847- 
48  to  England  and  Scotland,  in  1854  to  the  States  of  the  new  Northwest,  Michigan  and 
Wisconsin,  in  1862  to  Washington,  where  Lincoln  attended  his  lecture  on '  American  Civili- 
zation.' From  1854  to  1868  he  gave  many  lecture  courses  in  the  West,  and  in  1871  went 
as  far  as  the  Pacific  coast,  but  the  larger  part  of  his  lectures  were  still  given  in  New  Eng- 
land, especially  at  Boston  and  Concord.  In  1870  he  gave  a  regular  course  in  the  Gradu- 
ate School  of  Harvard,  then  just  established.  During  these  years  his  life  in  Concord  was 
enriched  by  the  friendships  with  Thoreau,  Alcott,  and  Ellery  Channing,  as  well  as  by  his 
acquaintance  in  Boston  and  Cambridge  with  Longfellow,  Agassiz,  Holmes,  and,  Lowell  ; 
he  and  Hawthorne  were  good  neighbors,  but  never  intimate  friends.  Concord  became  a 
shrine  of  pilgrimage,  and  many  of  the  best  and  ablest  minds  of  the  time,  as  well  as  many 
unbalanced  and  vague  idealists,  made  themselves,  like  Lowell,  Emerson's  faithful  '  liege- 
men.' 

Emerson  always  refused  to  be  drawn  into  the  anti-slavery  contest  as  an  active  worker. 
He  gives  his  reasons  in  full  in  the  '  Ode  to  W.  H.  Channing.'  He  advocated  the  purchase 
of  the  slaves,  for  two  billion  dollars,  —  less  than  the  war  ultimately  cost,  in  mere  money 
expenditure,  to  the  North  alone.  But  though  he  did  not  identify  himself  with  the  abolition- 
ists, he  never  hesitated  on  occasion  to  express  his  views  clearly.  His  first  speech  on  Ameri- 
can Slavery  was  given  at  Concord  in  1837,  and  his  address  on  Emancipation  in  1844;  he 
voted  with  the  Free-Soil  party  in  1850,  joined  in  the  mistaken  opposition  to  Webster 
in  1851,  denounced  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law  and  the  assault  on  Charles  Sumner,  and  took 
part  hi  the  memorial  service  for  John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie.  In  January,  1861,  with 
Wendell  Phillips,  he  was  mobbed  at  the  Tremont  Temple  in  Boston.  During  the  war  he 
was  a  strong  advocate  of  unconditional  emancipation.  But  that  he  did  wisely  m  keeping 
for  the  most  part  to  '  his  chosen  work,'  was  proved  by  the  outcome.  His  political  idealism, 
his  belief  in  man,  which  finds  its  perfect  expression  in  the  famous  quatrain  of  '  Volunta- 
ries,' became  a  pervading  influence.  To  this  influence,  more  than  to  anything  else,  said 
Lowell,  '  the  young  martyrs  of  our  Civil  War  owe  the  astounding  strength  of  thoughtful 
heroism  that  is  so  touching  in  every  record  of  their  lives.'  It  was  Emerson  who  was  chosen 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW  667 

to  give  the  address  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration  for  which  Lowell's  great  Ode  was 
written. 

The  last  ten  years  of  Emerson's  life  were  somewhat  clouded  by  a  gradual  failure  of  his 
mental  powers,  especially  of  the  memory,  but  he  was  always,  as  Whitman  has  described 
him  in  his  reminiscences,  beautiful  in  old  age.  Holmes  tells  us  of  the  last  time  he  saw 
Emerson,  at  Longfellow's  funeral,  in  1882.  Twice  he  rose,  and  looked  intently  on  the  face 
of  the  dead  poet,  and  the  last  time  turned  and  said  to  a  friend  near  him,  '  That  gentleman 
was  a  sweet,  beautiful  soul,  but  I  have  entirely  forgotten  his  name.'  Emerson  died  just  a 
month  after  Longfellow,  April  24, 1882. 

'  I  am  born  a  poet,'  wrote  Emerson  in  1835  ;  '  of  a  low  class,  without  doubt,  yet  a  poet. 
That  is  my  nature  and  vocation.  My  singing,  to  be  sure,  is  very  husky,  and  is  for  the  most 
part  in  prose.  Still,  I  am  a  poet  in  the  sense  of  a  perceiver  and  true  lover  of  the  har- 
monies that  are  in  the  soul  and  in  matter,  and  specially  of  the  correspondences  between 
these  and  those.'  At  other  times,  Emerson  said  of  himself,  '  I  am  not  a  great  poet.'  On 
the  other  hand,  Mr.  Stedman  calls  him  '  our  most  typical  and  inspiring  poet.'  It  has  often 
been  said  that  he  could  not  write  poetry  at  all,  and  as  often  replied  that  he  could  write 
nothing  else.  Of  course  the  question  is  largely  one  of  definitions.  Emerson's  own  dictum, 
'  The  great  poets  are  judged  by  the  frame  of  mind  they  induce,'  which  has  often  been 
quoted  in  settlement  of  the  question,  is  too  vague  to  be  of  any  real  help.  It  would  apply 
equally  well  as  a  standard  for  the  judgment  of  great  prose  writers,  or  great  orators.  Con- 
fusion arises  on  the  one  hand  from  identifying  poetry  with  whatever  is  noble  and  imagi- 
native in  thought  or  feeling,  and  on  the  other  hand,  from  narrowing  it  to  the  mere  sing- 
ing faculty.  The  lyric  is  only  one  of  the  many  poetic  forms  ;  and  the  lyric  element  in 
poetry  is  only  one  of  its  important  elements.  In  the  nineteenth  century,  to  be  sure,  the 
lyric  almost  usurped  to  itself  the  whole  domain  and  conception  of  poetry.  But  this  error 
can  be  only  a  passing  one.  What  lasts  from  century  to  century  in  poetry  is  even  more 
often  those  words  or  phrases  which  condense  thought  or  feeling  or  vision  into  simple 
and  well-shaped  rhythmic  form,  than  the  verse  that  merely  appeals  to  the  senses  with 
easy-flowing  or  even  haunting  melody.  We  may  even  admit  that  Emerson  was  not  a  born 
singer,  —  many  of  the  greatest  poets  have  not  been,  in  the  narrow  lyric  sense  of  the  word, 
—  and  still  maintain,  without  falling  into  the  opposite  error  of  identifying  poetry  with 
that  nobility  of  thought  and  originality  of  imagination  which  are  merely  possible  material 
for  poetry,  that  he  was  a  born  poet.  For  he  proved  himself  a  poet  in  the  form  as  well  as 
in  the  substance  of  his  work.  That  he  did  not  altogether  lack  the  lyric  note,  the  '  Earth 
Song  '  in  '  Hamatreya,'  a  few  passages  in  '  Woodnotes  '  and  '  May  Day,'  and  many  stanzas 
of  '  My  Garden,'  of  '  Waldeinsamkeit,'  and  of  the  '  Concord  Ode,'  at  once  show.  But,  what 
is  far  more  important,  he  has  in  a  supreme  degree  the  faculty  of  fitting  thought  to  the 
form  of  verse  rather  than  merely  to  its  melody.  Many  a  line,  many  a  quatrain,  many  brief 
passages,  and  a  few  complete  poems,  stand,  and  are  beginning  more  and  more  to  stand 
out,  in  Emerson's  work,  like  those  lines  of  which  Holmes  said  that  a  moment  after  they 
were  written  it  seemed  '  as  if  they  had  been  carved  on  marble  for  a  thousand  years.' 

HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  was  born  at  Portland,  Maine,  February  27,  1807, 
the  second  of  eight  children.  He  came  of  an  old  New  England  family.  His  father  and  his 
great-grandfather  were  graduates  of  Harvard  College.  On  his  mother's  side  he  was  de- 
scended from  John  and  Priscilla  Alden  of  Plymouth,  and  his  maternal  grandfather,  Gen- 


<j  ag  i 

which  he  read  in  numbers  when  it  appeared.    His  first  published  verses,  the  '  Battle  of 
Lovell's  Pond,'  were  printed  in  the  Portland  Gazette  when  he  was  thirteen  years  old. 
It  might  have  been  expected  that  he  would  go  to  Harvard  College,  as  his  father  had 


668  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

done.  But  his  father  was  now  a  trustee  of  Bowdoin,  the  chief  college  of  Maine,  which 
had  only  recently  been  set  apart  from  Massachusetts  as  a  separate  state.  Longfellow 
entered  the  sophomore  class  at  Bowdoin  in  1822,  and  graduated  in  1825,  ranking  second 
in  his  class.  Hawthorne  was  in  the  same  class;  and  Franklin  Pierce,  later  President  of  the 
United  States,  and  Hawthorne's  close  friend,  was  in  the  next  preceding  class. 

In  his  last  year  at  college,  when  the  question  of  choosing  a  career  in  life  became  press- 
ing, Longfellow  wrote  to  his  father  (December  5,  1824)  :  '  I  take  this  early  opportunity 
to  write  to  you,  because  I  wish  to  know  fully  your  inclination  with  regard  to  the  profes- 
sion I  am  to  pursue  when  I  leave  college.  For  my  part,  I  have  already  hinted  to  you  what 
would  best  please  me.  I  want  to  spend  one  year  at  Cambridge  for  the  purpose  of  reading 
history,  and  of  becoming  familiar  with  the  best  authors  in  polite  literature  ;  whilst  at  the 
same  time  I  can  be  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  the  Italian  language,  without  an  acquaint- 
ance with  which  I  shall  be  shut  out  from  one  of  the  most  beautiful  departments  of  letters. 
The  French  I  mean  to  understand  pretty  thoroughly  before  I  leave  college.  After  leav- 
ing Cambridge,  I  would  attach  myself  to  some  literary  periodical  publication,  by  which 
I  coidd  maintain  myself  and  still  enjoy  the  advantages  of  reading.  Now,  I  do  not  think 
that  there  is  anything  visionary  or  chimerical  in  my  plan  thus  far.  The  fact  is  —  and  I 
will  not  disguise  it  in  the  least,  for  I  think  I  ought  not  —  the  fact  is,  I  most  eagerly 
aspire  after  future  eminence  in  literature  ;  my  whole  soul  burns  most  ardently  for  it,  and 
every  earthly  thought  centres  in  it.  There  may  be  something  visionary  in  this,  but  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  have  prudence  enough  to  keep  my  enthusiasm  from  defeating  its  object 
by  too  great  haste.  Surely,  there  never  was  a  better  opportunity  offered  for  the  exertion 
of  literary  talent  in  our  own  country  than  is  now  offered.  To  be  sure,  most  of  our  literary 
men  thus  far  have  not  been  professedly  so,  until  they  have  studied  and  entered  the  prac- 
tice of  Theology,  Law,  or  Medicine.  But  this  is  evidently  lost  time.  .  .  .  Whether  Na- 
ture has  given  me  any  capacity  for  knowledge  or  not,  she  has  at  any  rate  given  me  a  very 
strong  predilection  for  literary  pursuits,  and  I  am  almost  confident  in  believing,  that,  if  I 
can  ever  rise  in  the  world,  it  must  be  by  the  exercise  of  my  talent  in  the  wide  field  of  lit- 
erature. With  such  a  belief,  I  must  say  that  I  am  unwilling  to  engage  in  the  study  of 
the  law.' 

On  the  last  day  of  the  year  he  wrote  again:  '  I  am  very  desirous  to  hear  your  opinion 
of  my  project  of  residing  a  year  at  Cambridge.  Even  if  it  should  be  found  necessary  for ' 
me  to  study  a  profession,  I  should  think  a  twelve-months'  residence  at  Harvard  before 
commencing  the  study  would  be  exceedingly  useful.  Of  divinity,  medicine,  and  law,  I 
should  choose  the  last.  Whatever  I  do  study  ought  to  be  engaged  in  with  all  my  soul,  — 
for  I  mil  be  eminent  in  something.  The  question  then  is,  whether  I  could  engage  in  the 
law  with  all  that  eagerness  which  in  these  times  is  necessary  to  success.  I  fear  that  I 
could  not.  .  .  .  Let  me  then  reside  one  year  at  Cambridge;  let  me  study  belles-lettres; 
and  after  that  time  it  will  not  require  a  spirit  of  prophecy  to  predict  with  some  degree 
of  certainty  what  kind  of  a  figure  I  could  make  in  the  literary  world.'  His  father 
answered:  '  A  literary  life,  to  one  who  has  the  means  of  support,  must  be  very  pleasant. 
But  there  is  not  enough  wealth  in  this  country  to  afford  encouragement  and  patronage  to 
merely  literary  men.  And  as  you  have  not  had  the  fortune  (I  will  not  say  whether  good 
or  ill)  to  be  born  rich,  you  must  adopt  a  profession  which  will  afford  you  subsistence  as 
well  as  reputation.  I  am  happy  to  observe  that  my  ambition  has  never  been  to  accumu- 
late wealth  for  my  children,  but  to  cultivate  their  minds  in  the  best  possible  manner,  and 
to  imbue  them  with  correct  moral,  political,  and  religious  principles,  —  believing  that  a 
person  thus  educated  will  with  proper  diligence  be  certain  of  attaining  all  the  wealth 
which  is  necessary  to  happiness.  With  regard  to  your  spending  a  year  at  Cambridge,  I 
have  always  thought  it  might  be  beneficial ;  and  if  my  health  should  not  be  impaired  and 
my  finances  should  allow,  I  should  be  very  happy  to  gratify  you.'  The  letter  goes  on 
with  a  kindly  criticism  of  some  verses  by  Longfellow  which  had  just  been  published. 

Longfellow  regretfully  accepted  his  father's  decision,  choosing,  among  the  three  pos- 
sible professions,  the  law.  '  I  can  be  a  lawyer,'  he  says.  '  This  will  support  my  real  ex- 
istence, literature  my  ideal  one.'  Just  at  the  right  moment,  however,  there  came  an 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW  669 

apparent  solution  of  the  difficulty  in  the  shape  of  an. offer  from  the  trustees  of  Bowdoin  to 
establish  for  Longfellow  a  professorship  of  modern  languages,  on  condition  that  he  should 
spend  some  time  in  Europe  preparing  for  the  position.  His  father  provided  the  necessary 
money  for  foreign  travel  and  study.  The  season  of  the  year  was  not  favorable  for  sail- 
ing, so  it  was  not  until  the  following  May  (1826),  that  he  began  the  long  voyage  from 
New  York  to  Havre.  Meanwhile  he  spent  some  time  in  reading  law  in  his  father's 
office,  and  more  in  writing  verses,  some  of  which  were  printed  in  the  Atlantic  Souvenir 
of  Philadelphia,  and  others  in  the  United  States  Literary  Gazette  of  Boston,  to  which  he 
had  already  contributed  during  his  last  year  in  college.  A  few  of  these  pieces  were  pre- 
served in  the  section  entitled  '  Earlier  Poems '  of  Longfellow's  first  volume  of  original 
verse,  published  fourteen  years  later. 

On  arriving  in  Europe,  in  June,  1826,  he  went  first  to  Paris,  and  spent  about  eight 
months  there;  then  to  Spain  (where  he  met  Washington  Irving),  for  nearly  a  year;  then 
to  Italy  for  almost  another  year  (1828);  and  to  Germany  for  his  last  six  months,  return- 
ing home  in  August,  1829.  He  had  acquired  a  good  practical  knowledge  of  French, 
Spanish,  and  Italian,  but  had  found  German  more  difficult,  and  made  comparatively  little 
progress  in  it. 

Longfellow  entered  on  his  work  as  a  teacher  of  modern  languages  and  literatures  in 
September,  1829.  The  idea  that  study  of  the  modern  languages  could  form  any  serious 
part  of  a  college  curriculum  was  at  that  time  a  new  one.  Only  one  important  profes- 
sorship in  the  subject  existed.  There  were  not  even  any  elementary  text-books  for  Eng- 
lish speaking  students,  and  Longfellow  had  to  begin  by  making  his  own.  He  published 
a  translation  of  L'Homond's  French  Grammar  ;  an  elementary  reading  book  in  French, 
called  Manuel  de  Proverbes  Dramatiques  •  and  a  similar  book  for  Spanish ;  he  wrote  in 
French  a  syllabus  of  the  elements  of  Italian  grammar,  and  edited  a  collection  of  extracts 
from  Italian  writers,  writing  his  preface  in  Italian.  He  attended  carefully  and  thoroughly 
to  his  work,  hearing  recitations,  composing  and  correcting  exercises,  etc.,  and  found  time 
to  write,  outside  of  his  text-books,  only  a  few  articles  for  the  North  American  Review, 
dealing  in  elementary  fashion  with  the  French,  Italian,  and  Spanish  languages  and  liter- 
atures. He  found  the  profession  which  he  had  chosen  no  less  exacting  than  the  law 
would  have  been,  and  almost  more  so;  since,  by  employing  him  on  work  closely  similar 
in  kind  to  that  which  he  most  desired  to  do,  it  left  him  little  freshness  of  mind  for  origi- 
nal composition.  His  work  was  well  and  faithfully  done,  however;  he  had  the  respect 
and  liking  of  his  students;  and  in  1834  the  most  important  position  within  the  field  of  his 
chosen  work  was  offered  to  him,  the  '  Smith  Professorship  of  the  French  and  Spanish  Lan- 
guages and  Literatures  and  of  Belles  Lettres,'  at  Harvard,  previously  held,  since  its  foun- 
dation in  1816,  by  Ticknor.  With  the  offer  came  a  suggestion  from  the  President  of  the 
University:  '  Should  it  be  your  wish,  previously  to  entering  upon  the  duties  of  the  office, 
to  reside  in  Europe,  at  your  own  expense,  a  year  or  eighteen  months,  for  the  purpose  of 
a  more  perfect  attainment  of  the  German,  Mr.  Ticknor  will  retain  his  office  till  your 
return.' 

Longfellow  eagerly  accepted  this  offer.  He  had  been  married  in  1831  to  Mary  Potter 
of  Portland,  and  they  sailed  for  Europe  in  April,  1835.  They  went  first  to  England,  then 
to  Holland,  where  Mrs.  Longfellow  fell  ill,  and  died  in  November. ,  Longfellow  was 
more  than  most  men  one  for  whom  it  was  '  not  good  that  he  should  be  alone.'  The  rest 
of  his  year  in  Europe  was  spent  in  the  shadow  of  sorrow  and  loneliness.  He  studied 
faithfully,  mastered  the  German  language,  and  buried  himself  in  the  reading  of  the 
modern  German  romantic  literature,  the  influence  of  which  is  so  strong  in  his  prose 
romance,  Hyperion.  This  romance  was  in  part  inspired  by  Miss  Frances  Appleton, 
whom  he  met  the  following  summer  in  Switzerland,  and  who  appears  in  it  as  Mary  Ash- 
burton. 

On  his  return  to  America  in  the  autumn  (1836),  he  entered  on  the  duties  of  his  profes- 
sorship at  Harvard.  He  had  somewhat  less  of  routine  work  to  do  than  at  Bowdoin,  and  moro 
lecturing.  He  had  one  assistant  for  each  of  the  foreign  languages  taught,  but  still  retained 
personal  oversight  of  the  work  of  each  student,  and  often  was  confined  to  his  classroom 


670  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

work  for  three  whole  days  in  each  week.  He  now  formed  broader  and  richer  friend- 
ships than  he  had  known  before,  particularly  with  Charles  Sumner,  then  teaching  in  the 
Harvard  Law  School,  with  C.  C.  Feltou,  professor  of  Greek,  and  later  President,  with 
George  S.  Hillard,  and  others;  and  renewed  his  college  friendship  with  Hawthorne.  He 
had  grown  with  the  experiences  of  life,  and  now  found  the  mechanical  duties  which  filled 
so  much  of  his  time  more  irksome  than  before.  -'  Perhaps  the  worst  thing  in  college  life,' 
lie  wrote  in  his  Journal,  '  is  this  having  your  mind  constantly  a  playmate  for  boys,  con- 
stantly adapting  itself  to  them,  instead  of  stretching  out  and  grappling  with  men's  minds; ' 
and  again:  '  Lecturing  is  all  well  enough,  and  in  my  history  is  an  evident  advance  upon 
the  past.  But  now  one  of  my  French  teachers  is  gone,  and  this  dragooning  of  schoolboys 
in  lessons  is  like  going  backward.'  On  the  whole,  however,  he  believed  in  his  work  : 
'  Have  I  been  wise  to  give  up  three  whole  days  (in  the  week)  to  college  classes  ?  I  think 
I  have ;  for  thus  I  make  my  presence  felt  here,  and  have  no  idle  time  to  mope  and  grieve ; ' 
and  again:  '  After  all  Cambridge  delighteth  my  heart  exceedingly.  I  have  fallen  upon 
books  with  a  most  voracious  appetite;  ...  no  doubt,  if  I  could  bring  myself  to  give  up 
all  my  time  to  the  college  ...  I  could  get  along  very  comfortably,  but  the  idea  of  stand- 
ing still  or  going  backward  is  not  to  be  entertained.'  Constantly  the  memory  of  his 
early  ambitions,  and  of  how  little  he  has  done  to  achieve  them,  returns  to  him:  'I  could 
live  very  happily  here  if  I  could  chain  myself  down  to  college  duties  and  be  nothing  but 
a  professor.  I  should  then  have  work  enough,  and  recreation  enough.  But  I  am  too 
restless  for  this.  What  should  I  be  at  fifty  ?  A  fat  mill-horse,  grinding  round  with 
blinkers  on.  .  .  .  This  will  not  do.  It  is  too  much  for  one's  daily  bread  when  one  can 
live  on  so  little.' 

These  extracts  are  from  his  Journal  of  1838-39  ;  and  it  is  in  these  same  years  that  he 
is  writing  the  few  brief  and  simple  poems  that  are  the  real  beginning  of  his  poetical 
work  :  the  '  Psalm  of  Life,'  the  '  Light  of  Stars,'  the  '  Hymn  to  the  Night,'  '  Footsteps  of 
Angels,'  and  the  '  Beleaguered  City.'  These  five  poems  and  four  others  almost  equally 
well  known,  with  seven  '  Earlier  Poems,'  were  collected  and  published  in  a  Blender  volume 
called  Voices  of  the  Night,  in  1839.  Hyperion  was  published  in  the  same  year.  Two  years 
later  he  published  another  small  collection  entitled  Ballads  and  Other  Poems,  containing 
the  '  Skeleton  in  Armor,'  the  '  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,'  the  '  Village  Blacksmith,'  '  En- 
dymion,'  the  '  Rainy  Day,'  '  Maidenhood,'  and  '  Excelsior.'  In  1842  the  '  Spanish  Student ' 
appeared,  as  a  serial,  in  Graham's  Magazine. 

Longfellow  was  now  thirty-five  years  old.  His  health  was  somewhat  impaired  by  his 
years  of  close  work,  and  he  found  himself  compelled  to  take  a  half-year's  leave  of  ab- 
sence, which  he  spent  mostly  at  Marienberg,  in  Germany.  Here  began  his  lasting  friend- 
ship with  Freiligrath,  who  later  translated  '  Hiawatha.'  On  his  way  home  he  passed 
through  England,  met  Landor  and  Dickens,  read  Dickens's  American  Notes,  and  was 
particularly  impressed  with  '  the  grand  chapter  on  slavery,'  as  he  calls  it.  During  the  re- 
turn voyage,  being  confined  to  his  cabin  for  about  a  fortnight,  he  wrote  the  seven  brief 
Poems  on  Slavery.  These,  with  one  additional  poem,  were  published  in  a  little  volume  of 
thirty-one  pages,  in  December,  1842,  and  were  hailed  with  delight  by  the  abolitionists, 
who  felt  that  a  very  strong  ally  had  joined  their  forces.  Longfellow,  however,  declined 
to  accept  the  congressional  nomination  which  was  offered  him  through  Whittier  by  the 
Liberty  party,  or  to  take  any  further  part  in  the  anti-slavery  contest.  He  even  omitted 
the  poems  on  slavery  from  the  first  collected  edition  of  his  poems,  an  act  for  which  he 
has  been  severely  blamed.  Yet  even  Lowell,  ardent  abolitionist  as  he  was  at  the  time,  and 
uncompromising  as  he  was  on  the  question  of  omitting  any  of  his  own  anti-slavery  poems, 
felt  that  Longfellow  was  justified  in  doing  so,  since  he  might  well  consider  these  poems  to 
be  the  least  valuable  part  of  his  work.  It  is  probable,  also,  that  the  gentle  Longfellow, 
who  did  not  lack  courage,  but  who  did  lack  '  the  fighting  edge,'  omitted  the  poems  rather 
from  a  genuine  desire  to  avoid  wounding  any  of  his  readers  than  from  mere  policy.  In 
any  case,  the  poems  are  unimportant.  '  I  have  attempted  only  to  invest  the  subject  with 
a  poetic  coloring,'  wrote  Longfellow  to  John  Forster;  and  that  is  all  he  succeeded  in  doing; 
many  will  sav,  with  a  false  poetic  coloring.  The  Poems  on  Slavery  have  none  of  the  deep 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW  671 

conviction  and  intensity  of  Whittier's  or  Lowell's,  and  are  more  closely  related  to  Ger- 
man literary  romanticism  than  to  American  social  conditions. 

Longfellow  had.  not  even  yet  '  found  himself,'  and  had  barely  begun,  in  a  few  ballads, 
his  real  poetical  work.  He  had  written  in  his  Journal  in  1840,  speaking  of  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Norton:  'There  I  beheld  what  perfect  happiness  may  exist  on  this  earth,  and  felt  how 
I  stood  alone  in  life,  cut  off  for  a  while  from  those  dearest  sympathies  for  which  I  long.' 
It  was  at  Marienberg  that  he  wrote  the  sonnet  '  Mezzo  Cammin,'  oppressed  with  a  feeling 
that,  though  he  was  the  author  of  a  few  brief  and  popular  poems,  yet  he  had  spent  half 
of  man's  allotted  years  without  having  begun  that  '  tower  of  song  with  lofty  parapet,' 
which  it  had  been  his  ambition  to  build.  He  was  almost  entirely  dependent  upon  home 
life  and  home  affection;  and  when  he  at  last  found  these,  in  his  marriage  with  Miss 
Frances  Appleton,  in  1843,  his  maturity  and  the  creative  period  of  his  life  really  began. 
He  finished  his  work  as  a  mere  editor  and  compiler  (except  for  the  Poems  of  Places,  much 
later)  with  the  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe,  in  1845.  At  the  end  of  that  year  was  pub- 
lished the  Belfry  of  Bruges  and  Other  Poems,  dated  1846,  which  closes  the  "first  period  of 
his  work,  and  already  shows  a  great  advance  in  artistic  quality  over  the  crude  moralizing 
and  vaguely  romantic  commonplace  of  his  earliest  work.  The  first  collected  edition  of  his 
poems  had  been  published  in  a  sumptuous  volume  by  Carey  and  Hart  of  Philadelphia,  in 
1845,  and  '  Evangeline  '  was  just  begun. 

The  characteristics  of  all  Longfellow's  work,  which  are  especially  marked  in  its  first 
period,  are  not  such  as  appeal  either  to  the  intellectual  critic  or  to  the  lover  of  art  for 
art's  sake.  A  good  deal  of  its  romantic  imagery  strikes  us  now  as  false,  and  its  simplicity 
as  bathos.  '  Excelsior  '  is  a  truly  imaginative  conception,  but  in  expression  it  degenerates 
into  '  A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye.  Bui  still  he  answered  with  a  sigh,'  etc.  The 
expression  is  truly  imaginative  in  that  French  passage  from  which  he  took  the  idea  of  the 
'  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,'  yet  Longfellow  makes  of  it  such  lines  as  '  Some  are  married, 
some  are  dead,'  which  is  almost  as  bad  as  the  line  that  Tennyson  declared  to  be  typical 
Wordsworthian  blank  verse, '  A  Mr.  Wilkinson,  a  clergyman.'  But  it  is  the  very  triumph 
of  these  early  poems  that  most  of  their  lines  seem  more  commonplace  than  they  really 
are,  because  they  have  become,  by  their  simplicity  and  genuineness,  a  part  of  the  uni- 
versal feeling  of  the  race.  Simple  and  genuine  they  are,  except  for  the  false  romantic 
imagery  already  spoken  of,  such  as  is  found  in  the  '  Reaper  and  the  Flowers.'  Their 
appeal  is  universal;  and  to  each  individual  it  may  at  some  time  be  new,  as  it  was  to  all 
the  young  America  of  1840.  Even  in  our  sophisticated  times,  it  would  be  a  pretty  poor 
sort  of  youth  who  would  not  still  be  thrilled  at  his  first  reading  of  the  '  Psalm  of  Life.' 
'  The  Day  is  Done,'  hackneyed  as  it  is,  is  still  full  of  simple  and  restful  beauty. 

On  the  last  day  of  1845,  Longfellow  wrote  in  his  Journal  :  '  Peace  to  the  embers  of 
burnt-out  things  ;  fears,  anxieties,  doubts,  all  gone  !  I  see  them  now  as  a  thin  blue  smoke, 
hanging  in  the  bright  heaven  of  the  past  year,  vanishing  away  into  utter  nothingness. 
Not  many  hopes  deceived,  n6t  many  illusions  scattered,  not  many  anticipations  disap- 
pointed ;  but  love  fulfilled,  the  heart  comforted,  the  soul  enriched  with  affection  ! '  The 
first  period  of  his  life  and  writing  was  in  fact  finished,  and  his  next  fifteen  years  were  to 
contain  the  largest  and  the  most  important  part  of  his  poetical  work.  In  the  earlier  period 
he  had  been  growing,  experimenting,  preluding  ;  in  the  third  and  last  period,  which 
was  to  follow  1861,  he  touched  deeper  notes  sometimes,  and  attained  to  greater  artistic 
beauty  and  condensation  ;  but  he  produced  no  such  large  body  of  lasting  work  as  in  the 
middle  period. 

This  middle  period,  from  the  end  of  1845  to  the  beginning  of  1861,  contains  '  Evange- 
line '  (1847)  ;  '  Hiawatha '  (1855)  ;  the  '  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish  '  (1858) ;  the  '  Build- 
ing of  the  Ship,'  and  other  poems,  especially  of  the  home,  in  The  Seaside  and  the  Fireside 
(dated  1850,  published  1849);  the  Golden  Legend  (1851);  the  'Saga  of  King  Olaf  '  and 
others  of  the  best  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  not  published  until  later  ;  '  My  Lost  Youth  ; ' 
the  '  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz  ; '  and  some  of  Longfellow's  most  beautiful  poems  of 
childhood,  including  'Children,'  and  'The  Children's  Hour.'  Longfellow's  own  home  was 
made  complete  in  these  years  by  the  coming  of  his  five  children,  three  girls  and  two  boys, 


672  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

and  his  outside  life  was  broadened  by  his  growing  friendship  with  Agassiz,  Lowell,  and 
Mr.  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  and  by  his  continued  close  "relations  with  Sumner.  The  duties 
of  his  professorship,  however,  were  becoming  more  and  more  irksome  to  him.  '  What 
vexes  me  most,'  he  wrote  in  1847,  '  is  being  cribbed  and  shut  up  in  college,  not  that  I  dis» 
like  work,  but  that  I  have  other  work  to  do  than  this  ; '  and  again  later  :  '  I  seem  to  be 
quite  banished  from  all  literary  work  save  that  of  my  professorship.  ...  I  am  tired,  not 
of  work,  but  of  the  sameness  of  work  .  .  .  these  hours  in  the  lecture-room,  like  a  schoolmas- 
ter !  It  is  pleasant  enough  when  the  mind  gets  engaged  in  it,  —  but  "  art  is  long  and  life 
is  short.  " '  In  1853  he  wrote  nothing  except  the  brief  poem  to  Lowell, '  The  Two  Angels.' 
In  1854,  realizing  that  his  means  were  quite  adequate  for  his  support  without  a  college 
salary,  —  they  had  been  so  since  his  second  marriage,  —  he  finally  decided  to  resign  his 
professorship  and  devote  himself  entirely  to  literature.  The  next  few  years  were  full 
of  work.  '  Hiawatha '  was  written  immediately  after  his  retirement  from  the  professor- 
ship, the  Courtship  of  Miles  Blandish  and  other  Poems  was  published  in  1858,  and  in  the 
next  three  years  were  written  many  of  his  best  shorter  poems  and  some  of  the  Tales 
of  a  Wayside  Inn. 

Longfellow  had  his  greatest  success  as  a  narrative  poet.  For  the  average  reader  '  the 
tale 's  the  thing,'  and  Longfellow  possessed  the  surprisingly  rare  faculty  of  telling  a 
simple  story  well.  For  him  too  the  tale  was  the  thing  ;  he  realized  by  instinct  the  simple 
and  essential  first  point  that  it  must  be  constantly  interesting,  and  he  had  the  faculty  of 
making  it  so.  In  local  flavor  and  truth  of  detail  his  work  is  vastly  inferior  to  Whittier's. 
Some  score  of  years  after  he  wrote  the  '  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,'  he  still  vaguely  wondered 
just  where  the  Reef  of  Norman's  Woe  might  be,  though  it  was  not  fifteen  miles  from 
his  own  summer  home.  He  knew  the  country  of '  Hiawatha  '  only  through  books,  and  for 

*  Evangeline '  he  formed  his  ideas  of  the   Mississippi  from  reading  (perhaps  mostly  in 
Chateaubriand),  and  from  a  pictorial  diorama  which  was  exhibited  at  Boston  while  he  was 
•writing  the  poem,  and  which  he  enthusiastically  welcomed  as  a  great  help.   Yet  his  nar- 
rative, as   such,  is  better  even  than  Whittier's,  whether  in  the   ringing  ballads   of  the 
Northland,  from  the  '  Skeleton  in  Armor '  to  the  '  Saga  of  King  Olaf,'  or  in  the  gentler, 
easily  flowing  tales  that  are  more  characteristic  of  his  own  mood,  from  '  Evangeline  '  to 

*  King  Robert  of  Sicily  '  or  the  '  Birds  of  Killingworth.'  And  in  '  Hiawatha,'  by  some  won- 
drous alchemy  due  to  the  true  simplicity  of  his  own  mind,  he  did  catch  the  true  local  color, 
even  in  detail  as  well  as  in  mood,  of  a  life  that  he  had  never  seen.   '  Hiawatha  '  has  worn 
surprisingly  well,  and  has  stood  the  test  of  being  judged  even  by  the  people  whose  life 
and  legends  it  describes.   It  stands  out,  more  and  more,  as  Longfellow's  most  important 
work.   This  is  anything  but  the  fate  predicted  for  it  by  those  intellectual  critics  who  (with 
the  exception  of  Emerson)  judged  it  so  severely  at  its  first  appearance.    In  the  '  Courtship 
of  Miles  Standish,'  Longfellow  was  dealing  with  a  life  that  he  knew  more  intimately,  by 
its  partial  survival  and  by  its  traditions  living  all  about  him,  as  well  as  from  books;  though 
he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  visit  Plymouth  until  the  poem  had  been  completed.    His 
treatment  of  this  theme  is  entirely  happy  and  true.    The  '  Golden  Legend '  is  naturally 
much  less  so,  though  it  is  by  far  the  best  part  of  the  ambitious  trilogy  which  he  planned, 
under  the  title  of  Christus :  a  Mystery.    It  has  charm  and  the  glamour  of  mediseval  story, 
but  Longfellow  was  manifestly  unfitted  .for  any  real  dramatic  composition,  or  for  the 
broad  picturing  of  a  great  period  like  the  Middle  Ages. 

In  1861  came  the  tragic  break  in  Longfellow's  life.  It  was  in  July.  Mrs.  Longfellow's 
light  summer  dress  caught  fire,  and  she  was  so  severely  burned  that  she  died  the  next 
morning.  Longfellow  also  was  seriously  burned  in  trying  to  smother  the  flames,  and 
could  not  leave  his  room  on  the  day  of  her  funeral,  —  the  anniversary  of  their  wedding 
day. 

The  story  of  his  next  few  years  is  completely  told  in  the  first  of  the  '  Divina  Comme- 
dia '  sonnets.  That  of  the  later  years  is  suggested  in  the  '  Cross  of  Snow.'  'I  have  taken 
refuge  in  this  translation  of  the  Divina  Commedia,'  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Freiligrath. 
For  a  while  he  wrote  little  else,  except  to  complete  and  publish,  at  the  end  of  1863, 
the  first  part  of  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn  ;  the  second  and  third  parts  were  published  in 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW  653 

1872  and  1873.  The  two  New  England  Tragedies,  the  first  of  which  had  been  written  in 
1856-57,  were  published  in  1868,  the  Divine  Tragedy  was  written  and  published  in  1871, 
and  the  completed  Christus  in  1872.  He  wrote  '  Morituri  Salutamus,'  for  the  fiftieth  anni- 
versary of  his  college  class,  and  this  was  published  in  1875,  in  the  Masque  of  Pandora 
and  Other  Poems,  together  with  the  '  Hanging  of  the  Crane,'  which  was  written  for  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich,  and  which  holds  a  peculiar  place  in  Longfellow's  work,  as  summing  up 
within  itself  so  many  of  the  different  aspects  of  home  life,  of  all  of  which  he  was  the 
poet  laureate. 

During  this  last  period  of  his  life,  he  wrote  often  in  a  form  which  he  had  hardly  more 
than  once  or  twice  tried  before,  except  for  translations,  —  the  sonnet.  In  much  of  the 
work  of  this  period,  especially  the  sonnets,  his  feeling  is  deeper  and  stronger  (it  could 
not  be  truer),  and  his  expression  richer  and  more  condensed,  than  before.  Longfellow 
was  always  a  true  artist  and  careful  of  the  form  of  his  work,  as  few  of  our  American 
poets,  except  Pee,  have  been.  The  little  lyric  '  Sea-Weed,'  of  an  earlier  period,  shows 
how  carefully  and  well  he  could  fit  the  form  of  his  idea  to  a  somewhat  intricate  stanza. 
But  his  art  was  never  rich  or  varied,  and  he  lacked  most  of  all  that  tenseness  of  expres- 
sion which  is  the  mark  of  any  very  strong  artistic  or  imaginative  feeling  for  language. 
In  the  sonnets,  however,  his  feeling,  now  deepened  and  strengthened  by  the  experiences 
of  his  constantly  growing  life,  and  by  his  communion  with  Dante,  was  confined  within  the 
narrow  walls  of  a  form  that  did  not  allow  it  to  flow  out  thin  over  the  marshes  of  the 
commonplace,  as  it  had  so  often  done  before,  and  as  it  did  still  in  the  '  Hanging  of  the 
Crane.'  There  is  much  of  this  same  strength  and  condensation  in  his  noble  '  Morituri 
Salutamus.' 

Longfellow's  last  years  were  made  happier  by  the  devotion  of  his  own  children,  and 
by  the  love  of  all  children  who  knew  him  —  and  it  would  seem  that  few  in  America,  or 
even  in  England  or  Germany,  did  not  know  him.  The  story  of  his  gift  from  the  Cam- 
bridge schoolchildren  on  his  seventy-second  birthday,  and  of  their  constant  visits  to  his 
home,  is  too  well  known  to  be  repeated.  His  seventy-fifth  birthday  was  celebrated  in  the 
schools  throughout  the  United  States,  and  was  made  memorable  also  by  Whittier's  poem, 
'  The  Poet  and  the  Children.'  He  died  not  quite  a  month  later,  March  24,  1882. 

Longfellow's  life  was  that  of  a  simple,  faithful,  true  man  and  gentleman,  kindly  and 
home-loving.  And  that  is  what  he  has  put  into  his  verse.  He  has  been  well  called  '  the 
laureate  of  the  common  human  heart.'  He  is  first  and  most  of  all  the  poet  of  the  home. 
There  is  not  an  aspect  of  home  life  that  he  has  not  touched  and  beautified.  If  much  of 
his  poetry  is  mere  commonplace,  it  is  always  the  making  beautiful  of  the  commonplace. 
Bryant's  poetry  often  —  as  in  the  well-known  lines  from  '  The  Battle-Field,'  —  and 
Emerson's  still  oftener,  are  the  making  noble  of  the  commonplace.  Whittier's  is  the 
simple  and  true  rendering  of  it.  Whitman's  is  the  apotheosis  of  it.  Poe  is  the  only  one 
of  our  chief  elder  poets  who  is  not  commonplace,  who  detests  and  despises  the  common- 
place. 

Next,  Longfellow  is  the  only  American  who  has  successfully  written  poems  of  any 
considerable  length.  The  long  poem  is  different  from  the  short  poem,  as  the  novel  is  from 
the  short  story,  not  only  in  quantity,  but  in  kind.  For  those  who  can  conceive  only  that 
kind  or  class  of  poetry  which  finds  fit  expression  in  the  short  poem,  Poe's  dictum  that 
*  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  long  poem  '  is  true  ;  for  the  poem  which  by  its  nature  belongs 
to  the  short  poem  class,  yet  tries  to  extend  itself  to  greater  length,  is,  as  Poe  saw,  inevi- 
tably a  failure.  The  long  poem  is  an  entirely  different  literary  class  or  genre.  It  is  Long- 
fellow's distinctive  glory  that  he  had  the  patience  and  the  sustained  artistic  power  to 
win  success  in  this  difficult  form,  —  a  kind  of  success  which  is  almost  the  rarest  in  litera/- 
tare,  and  second  only  to  success  in  the  true  dramatic  presentation  of  character  and  life. 
Without  comparing  Longfellow's  achievement  in  this  field  with  that  of  greater  foreign 
poets,  we  may  say  that  it  alone  would  give  him  an  unanswerable  claim  to  the  largest  space 
in  any  fully  representative  collection  of  our  chief  American  poets. 


674  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

WHITTIER  is  the  poet  of  New  England  country  life,  almost  as  truly  and  fully  as  Burns 
is  of  the  country  life  of  Scotland.  For  this  he  was  fitted  by  all  the  circumstances  of  his 
own  life.  He  was  born  and  bred  a  farmer's  boy,  on  the  same  farm  which  his  first  American 
ancestor,  Thomas  Whittier,  had  taken  up  and  cleared  in  1647,  and  in  the  very  house  which 
this  Thomas  Whittier  had  built  for  himself  in  1688.  This  sturdy  pioneer  came  to  New 
England  in  1638,  when  he  was  eighteen  years  old,  and  so  was  nearly  seventy  when  he 
built  the  house  which  was  to  be  Whittier's  birthplace.  Of  his  ten  children,  five  were  boys, 
and  each  of  the  five  boys,  like  his  father,  was  over  six  feet  tall,  and  strong  correspond- 
ingly. The  youngest  son,  Joseph,  Whittier's  great-grandfather,  had  nine  children,  of 
whom  the  youngest,  Whittier's  grandfather,  married  Sarah  Greenleaf,  and  had  eleven 
children,  of  whom  the  youngest  but  one  was  Whittier's  father.  There  was  naturally  but 
little  property  to  divide  among  so  many  children,  and  the  older  sous  usually  went  out  and 
made  their  own  way  in  the  world,  while  the  farm  was  left  to  the  youngest  —  in  the  last 
case,  to  the  two  youngest,  WThittier's  father  and  his  uncle,  Moses  Whittier,  who  is  one  of 
the  family  group  in  '  Snow-Bound.' 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  was  born  December  17.  1807.  He  lived  and  worked  on  the 
farm,  but  he  lacked  the  sturdy  strength  of  his  ancestors,  and  the  hard  work  of  his  early 
boyhood  resulted  in  physical  injury  and  weakness  w^iich  lasted  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
His  education  was  that  of  a  typical  country  boy  in  those  days  ;  he  attended  the  district 
school  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town  where  he  lived,  and  later  earned  for  himself  two  short 
terms  at  the  neighboring  academy.  Only  once  in  his  boyhood  did  he  go  so  far  away  from 
home  as  to  visit  Boston.  Thus,  in  ancestry  and  training,  Whittier  differs  from  the  other 
New  England  poets,  who  were  all  college  bred,  and  spent  their  youth  in  a  city  or  an 
academic  town.  One  other  important  point  is  to  be  noted,  —  that  Whittier's  family  were 
devout  Quakers. 

Books  were  naturally  scarce  in  the  household,  except  for  the  Bible  and  the  lives  of 
Quaker  worthies.  He  read  all  the  poetry  he  could  get  hold  of,  from  the  dry  '  Davideis  ' 
spoken  of  in  '  Snow-Bound '  to  something  of  Gray  and  Cowper.  He  wrote  rhymes  on 
his  slate  after  the  '  nightly  chores  '  were  done.  But  his  real  awakening  to  poetry  came 
through  Burns,  as  he  has  told  us  so  vividly  and  beautifully  in  his  tribute  to  the  Scotch 
peasant-poet. 

Whittier's  first  printed  verses  appeared  when  he  was  eighteen  years  old,  in  the  local 
newspaper,  edited  by  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  then  only  twenty.  Garrison  at  once  sought 
out  his  new  contributor,  and  urged  the  necessity  of  further  education  and  cultivation  of 
bis  talent.  '  Sir,'  replied  Whittier's  father,  '  poetry  will  not  give  him  bread.'  Whittier, 
however,  earned  enough  by  shoemaking  to  support  himself  for  one  term  at  Haverhill 
Academy  in  1827,  and  by  school-teaching  enough  for  another  term  in  1828.  During 
these  two  years  he  wrote  for  the  local  papers,  especially  the  Haverhill  Gazette,  something 
like  a  hundred  poems. 

A  college  education  seemed  out  of  the  question,  but  Whittier  obtained  employment  in 
the  following  winter  as  hack  editor  of  a  Boston  trade  journal,  the  American  Manufacturer. 
The  following  summer  his  father  fell  seriously  ill,  and  he  had  to  return  home  and  take 
charge  of  the  farm.  But  here  he  found  an  opportunity  for  continuing  his  other  work,  in 
the  editorship  of  the  chief  local  paper,  the  Haverhill  Gazette.  His  father  died  in  June, 
1830.  In  July  he  went  to  Hartford,  Conn.,  to  be  editor  of  the  New  England  Review,  and 
continued  to  conduct  it  until  the  end  of  1831,  although  he  was  compelled  to  spend  a  good 
deal  of  that  year  at  home  in  Haverhill,  and  ultimately  to  give  up  his  editorial  position, 
on  account  of  serious  illness. 

In  these  excursions  into  the  outside  world,  at  Boston,  and  particularly  at  Hartford, 
which  was  then  somewhat  of  a  literary  centre,  and  where  he  held  an  important  position, 
Whittier's  outlook  had  of  course  been  greatly  broadened,  and  his  literary  ambition 
strengthened.  His  letters  at  the  time  show  a  strong  desire  and  even  hope  of  winning 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER  675 

fame  as  a  poet.  His  editorial  work  had  also  drawn  him  into  politics,  and  when  he  re- 
turned to  Haverhill,  in  spite  of  his  ill  health,  he  took  an  important  practical  part  in  the 
local  contests.  In  September,  1832,  he  wrote  :  '  Even  if  my  health  was  restored,  I  should 
not  leave  this  place.  I  have  too  many  friends  around  me,  and  my  prospects  are  too  good 
to  be  sacrificed  for  any  uncertainty.'  The  prospect  which  he  was  unwilling  to  sacrifice 
was  that  of  being  elected  to  Congress  in  the  following  year.  It  appears  that  he  could 
probably  have  been  elected  in  1832,  but  he  was  not  yet  of  the  required  age. 

Both  his  literary  and  political  ambitions,  however,  seemed  to  be  once  for  all  sacrificed 
when,  almost  by  a  sort  of  religious  conversion,  he  devoted  himself  to  the  abolition  cause. 
The  abolitionists  were  at  that  time  a  small  and  persecuted  band,  despised  by  all  '  respect- 
able '  people  in  church,  state,  or  university,  and  generally  looked  on  much  as  an  avowed 
anarchist  is  now.  They  were,  in  fact,  setting  themselves  in  opposition  to  what  was  then 
the  law  of  the  land,  and  to  what  seemed,  to  Northerners  as  well  as  Southerners,  part  of 
the  very  basis  of  its  social  and  economic  system.  Whittier  had  far  more  common  sense 
and  balance  than  most  of  the  abolitionists  in  1833.  '  He  counted  the  cost  with  Quaker 
coolness  of  judgment,'  says  Pickard. '  before  taking  a  step  that  closed  to  him  the  gates  of 
both  political  and  literary  preferment.  He  realized  more  fully  than  did  most  of  the  early 
abolitionists  that  the  institution  of  slavery  would  not  fall  at  the  first  blast  of  their  horns. 
When  he  decided  to  enter  upon  this  contest,  he  understood  that  his  cherished  ambitions 
must  be  laid  aside,  and  that  an  entire  change  in  his  plans  was  involved.  He  took  the  step 
deliberately  and  after  serious  consideration.'  What  induced  Whittier  to  take  this  step, 
even  while  realizing  its  cost  so  clearly,  was  an  intense  idealistic  belief,  a  belief  amounting 
almost  to  religious  fervor,  in  the  principle  of  universal  liberty  and  equality.  Late  in  life, 
giving  counsel  to  a  boy  of  fifteen,  Whittier  said,  '  My  lad,  if  thou  wouldest  win  success, 
join  thyself  to  some  unpopular  but  noble  cause.' 

This  is  not  the  place  to  give  any  extended  account  of  Whittier's  work  in  the  abolition 
movement.  It  has  been  treated  with  admirable  completeness  and  fairness  in  Professor 
Carpenter's  Whittier.  Strange  as  this  seems  to  us  now,  Whittier  was,  aside  from  his  po- 
etry, one  of  the  most  able  workers  in  practical  politics  on  the  abolition  side.  He  held 
together  a  small  band  of  followers  in  his  own  congressional  district,  and  kept  the  balance 
of  power  in  such  a  way  as  often  to  force  anti-slavery  declarations  from  any  candidate 
who  wished  to  be  elected.  He  had  taken  no  part  in  founding  the  New  England  Anti- 
Slavery  Society  in  1832;  but  in  1833  he  was  a  delegate  from  Massachusetts  to  the  Con- 
vention at  Philadelphia  which  founded  the  American  Anti-Slavery  Society.  (See  note  on 
page  260.)  He  later  became  somewhat  estranged  from  the  purely  idealistic  faction  of 
the  abolitionists,  led  by  Garrison,  who  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  a  government 
based,  as  it  seemed  to  them,  on  false  principles,  or  even  to  vote  under  it,  and  who  advocated 
immediate  dissolution  of  the  Union  in  order  to  break  away  from  the  slave  power. 
Whittier  was  elected  as  representative  to  the  Massachusetts  Legislature  in  1835,  and 
again  in  1836,  but  could  not  serve  his  second  term  on  account  of  ill  health,  and  was 
unable,  for  the  same  reason,  to  take  office  himself  at  any  subsequent  time.  He  still  con- 
tinued to  play  an  active  part  in  politics,  however,  even  to  the  end  of  his  life.  He  is  de- 
scribed in  a  letter  quoted  by  Professor  Carpenter,  as  '  one  of  the  greatest  workers,  politi- 
cally, even,  in  all  our  State.  I  sometimes  wonder  how  so  fine  a  mind  can  stoop  to  such 
drudgery.  But  Whittier  has  as  much  benevolence  as  he  has  ideality.  He  knows  the 
drudgery  must  be  done,  and,  since  no  one  else  does  it,  will  do  it  himself.  May  Heaven 
bless  him.'  Whittier  was  largely  instrumental  in  securing  the  nomination  of  Charles 
Sumner  to  the  Senate,  and  in  persuading  him  to  accept  the  nomination.  His  correspondence 
with  Sumner,  from  1840  on,  is  very  important  for  the  history  of  that  period.  Toward  the 
end  of  Sumner's  life,  when  he  had  been  censured  by  the  Massachusetts  Legislature  for 
advocating  the  proposal  that  the  names  of  battles  fought  against  fellow-citizens  should  no 
longer  be  inscribed  on  regimental  flags,  it  was  Whittier  who  aroused  public  opinion  to 
compel  the  repeal  of  this  vote  of  censure.  In  1834  Whittier  was  instrumental  in  bringing 
the  English  abolitionist,  George  Thompson,  to  New  England,  and  this  caused  bitter  per- 
sonal opposition.  He  accompanied  Thompson  to  New  Hampshire,  and  at  Concord  they 


676  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

were  stoned  and  shot  at  by  a  mob,  and  barely  escaped.  Whittier  went  to  Philadelphia  in 
1838,  to  edit  the  Pennsylvania  Freeman;  Pennsylvania  Hall,  where  he  had  his  office,  was 
burned  by  a  mob  without  interference  from  the  authorities.  He  took  part,  from  1835  to 
1850,  in  the  editing  of  several  anti-slavery  papers,  and  in  many  anti-slavery  conventions. 

During  all  this  time,  he  was  a  great  influence  by  his  poetry  also.  The  ringing  lines  of 
'  Expostulation,'  and  of  '  Massachusetts  to  Virginia,'  were  declaimed  again  and  again 
through  the  North  and  West.  The  anti-slavery  movement  rapidly  grew,  and  won  the 
allegiance  of  men  like  Dr.  Channiug  in  1836,  and  Lowell  in  1841.  But  it  was  still  the 
unpopular  cause,  and  abolitionists  were  mobbed  in  Massachusetts  as  late  as  1861. 

Whittier's  anti-slavery  poems  form  the  larger  part  of  his  work  for  all  this  period.  His 
earliest  volumes  were  almost  entirely  made  up  of  them,  —  the  Poems,  of  1837,  the  Bal- 
lads, Anti-Slavery  Poems,  etc.,  of  1838,  and  the  Voices  of  Freedom,  of  1841.  Of  course 
little  of  this  verse  can  survive,  except  for  its  historic  interest.  Sometimes,  however, 
though  local  and  temporary  in  its  origin,  it  expresses  something  universal  and  eternal,  as 
with  the  idea  of  freedom  in  '  Expostulation,'  of  truth  and  honor  and  the  shame  of  their 
betrayal,  in  '  Ichabod,'  of  loathing  at  the  triumph  of  wrong,  in  '  The  Christian  Slave ' 
and  '  The  Rendition.'  '  Massachusetts  to  Virginia '  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  '  poems  of 
places,'  making  the  very  rocks  arise  and  speak. 

In  the  meantime,  Whittier  was  writing  other  poems,  more  enduring  than  the  mass  of 
his  anti-slavery  work.  The  Lays  of  my  Home  was  published  in  1843,  the  first  collected 
edition  of  his  Poems  in  1849,  Songs  of  Labor  in  1850,  the  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  and  Other 
Poems  in  1853,  the  <  blue  and  gold  '  edition  of  his  Poetical  Works  in  1857.  Except  for  the 
publication  of  his  works,  there  is  little  to  note  in  his  life-story.  He  had  given  up  the 
farm,  and  moved  to  a  little  house  in  the  near-by  village  of  Amesbury,  where  he  lived 
until  1876.  His  income  was  very  small,  until  after  the  publication  of  '  Snow-Bound,'  in 
1866,  for  in  the  earlier  years  he  could  necessarily  earn  but  little  by  his  writings.  '  For 
twenty  years,'  he  said,  '  I  was  shut  out  from  the  favor  of  booksellers  and  magazine 
editors;  but  I  was  enabled,  by  rigid  economy,  to  live  in  spite  of  them,  and  to  see  the  end 
of  the  institution  that  proscribed  me.'  '  Snow-Bound,'  and  all  his  later  works,  brought 
him  large  profits. 

During  the  war  Whittier  wrote  little.  His  feeling  is  expressed  intensely  in  '  The  Wait- 
ing '  and  '  The  Watchers,'  and  he  wrote  the  best  ballad  of  the  war  in  '  Barbara  Frietchie.' 
He  hailed  the  coming  of  emancipation  in  '  Laus  Deo  '  and  the  '  Emancipation  Hymn.' 
In  1866  came  •  Snow-Bound,'  in  1867  the  «  Tent  on  the  Beach,'  in  1869  '  Among  the 
Hills,'  in  1870  the  Ballads  of  New  England.  These  are  his  most  important  volumes,  and 
mark  his  late  maturity  as  a  poet,  which  came  only  with  his  freedom  from  the  partisan 
struggle  that  had  filled  the  best  years  of  his  life. 

Hater  of  din  and  riot 
He  lived  in  days  unquiet ; 
And  lover  of  all  beauty, 
Trod  the  hard  ways  of  duty, 

he  says  truly  of  himself  in  '  An  Autograph  ; '  while  in  his  Prelude  to  the  '  Tent  on  the 
Beach,'  he  expresses  more  fully  this  feeling  of  what  his  life  had  been  :  — 

And  one  there  was,  a  dreamer  born, 

Who,  with  a  mission  to  fulfil, 
Had  left  the  Muses'  haunts  to  turn 

The  crank  of  an  opinion-mill, 
Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A  weapon  in  the  war  with  wrong, 
Yoking  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-plough 
That  beam-deep  turned  the  soil  for  truth  to  spring  and  grow. 

Too  quiet  seemed  the  man  to  ride 

The  winged  Hippogriff  Reform  , 
Was  his  a  voice  from  side  to  side 

To  pierce  the  tumult  of  the  storm  ? 
A  silent,  shy,  peace-loving  man, 
He  seemed  no  fiery  partisan 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES  677 

To  hold  his  way  against  the  public  frown, 

The  ban  of  Church  and  State,  the  fierce  mob's  hounding  down. 

For  while  he  wrought  with  strenuous  will 

The  work  his  hands  had  found  to  do, 
He  heard  the  fitful  music  still 

Of  winds  that  out  of  dream-land  blew. 
The  din  about  him  could  not  drown 
What  the  strange  voices  whispered  down ; 
Along  his  task-field  weird  processions  swept, 
The  visionary  pomp  of  stately  phantoms  stepped. 

The  common  air  was  thick  with  dreams,  — 

He  told  them  to  the  toiling  crowd  ; 
Such  music  as  the  woods  and  streams 

Sang- in  his  ear  he  sang  aloud  ; 
In  still,  shut  bays,  on  windy  capes, 
He  heard  the  call  of  beckoning  shapes, 
And,  as  the  gray  old  shadows  prompted  him, 
To  homely  moulds  of  rhyme  he  shaped  their  legends  grim. 

Whittier  never  married.  '  Circumstances,'  he  wrote,  — '  the  care  of  an  aged  mother, 
and  the  duty  owed  to  a  sister  in  delicate  health  for  many  years,  must  be  my  excuse  for 
living  the  lonely  life  which  has  called  out  thy  pity.  ...  I  have  learned  to  look  into  hap- 
piness through  the  eyes  of  others.'  Still  more  cogent  reasons  for  not  marrying  were  his 
comparative  poverty,  his  ill  health,  and  especially  the  strong  feeling  of  the  Quakers  that 
it  was  not  permissible  to  marry  out  of  their  own  sect.  There  are  beautiful  memories  of  his 
school-boy  loves  in  poems  like  '  My  Playmate,'  '  JBenedicite,'  '  A  Sea  Dream,' '  Memories,' 
and  '  In  School-Days,'  and  these  poems  of  dim  and  delicate  reminiscence,  untouched  by  the 
realities  of  life,  sometimes  seem  more  beautiful  than  any  songs  of  living  passion.  His 
home,  for  many  years,  was  made  by  his  younger  sister,  Elizabeth,  until  her  death,  in  1864  ; 
then  by  his  niece,  Elizabeth  Whittier,  till  her  marriage,  in  1876.  After  this  he  lived  most 
of  the  time  with  three  sisters,  his  cousins,  at  Oak  Knoll,  Danvers.  His  faculties  remained 
unimpaired  to  the  last,  and  he  died  at  the  age  of  eighty-four,  September  7,  1892. 

Whittier  was  primarily  the  poet  of  abolition  ;  but  enough  has  already  been  said  on  that 
part  of  his  work.  Next,  he  was  the  poet  of  Nature  in  New  England.  His  poems  of  the 
Merrimac  Valley,  of  Lake  Winnipesaukee  and  the  mountains  near  it,  of  Hampton  Beach 
and  the  Marblehead  coast,  are  unsurpassed  in  simple  truth  and  love.  But  most  of  all  he 
is  the  poet  of  country  life  in  New  England.  This  means  more  than  at  first  appears,  for 
it  was  from  these  New  England  homes  that  the  larger  number  and  the  more  energetic  of 
the  young  men,  like  the  older  brothers  of  Whittier's  father  and  grandfather,  went  out  to 
take  and  make  the  great  Northwest  and  then  the  greater  West ;  moreover  Whittier,  in 
speaking  for  his  own  section,  often  expresses  what  the  whole  of  America  is  and  means  as 
contrasted  with  the  Old  World,  —  in  '  The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn,'  for  instance.  There  are 
two  or  three  other  points  to  be  noted  in  summary.  One  is  the  simple  beauty }  truth,  and 
modesty  of  Whittier's  own  nature,  constantly  and  unconsciously  showing  itself  in  his 
many  personal  poems,  and  in  his  modest  estimate  of  his  own  work,  as  in  the  '  Proem.' 
Another  is  that  he  ranks  as  our  truest,  though  not  our  greatest,  narrative  poet.  This  has 
already  been  touched  on  in  speaking  of  Longfellow  ;  as  a  writer  of  ballads,  Whittier  sur- 
passes Longfellow  in  everything  except,  that  which  is  after  all  the  first  essential,  but  only 
one  essential,  —  spirited  movement.  And  finally,  he  is  our  chief  religious  poet. 

OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES 

HOLMES  was  a  great  believer  in  ancestry,  and  very  proud  of  his  own.  Through  his  mother 
he  was  connected  with  the  Phillipses,  and  was  a  cousin  of  Wendell  Phillips ;  with  the 
Bradstreets,  and  was  a  direct  descendant  of  Anne  Bradstreet,  the  first  American  poetess; 
with  the  Quincys,  and  was  the  great-grandson  of  '  Dorothy  Q. ; '  with  the  Hancocks,  one 
of  whom  had  married  the  second  Dorothy  Quincy,  niece  of  the  first;  and  with  the  Wen- 


678  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

dells,  one  of  the  old  Dutch  families  who  cams  to  America  about  1646.  He  was  named  for  his 
maternal  grandfather,  the  Honorable  Oliver  Wendell.  On  the  other  side  of  the  family 
his  great-great-grandfather,  John  Holmes,  of  Puritan  stock,  settled  in  Woodstock,  Conn.,  in 
1686.  His  grandfather,  David  Holmes,  the  '  Deacon '  who  built  the  '  One-Hoss  Shay,'  was 
a  captain  in  the  French  and  Indian  wars,  and  surgeon  in  the  Revolutionary  army.  His 
father,  Rev.  Abiel  Holmes,  graduated  at  Yale  in  1782,  preached  in  Georgia  for  six  years, 
and  then  came  to  settle  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  where  for  forty  years  he  was  pastor  of  the 
First  Church.  He  was  also  an  author  and  lecturer,  and  wrote  the  Annals  of  America,  the 
first  important  history  after  the  Revolution.  He  lived  in  the  '  house  with  the  gambrel- 
roof,'  which  stood  near  the  site  of  the  present  Harvard  Gymnasium,  and  which  is  so  often 
alluded  to  in  Holmes's  writings  and  so  lovingly  described  in  the  Poet  at  the  Breakfast 
Table.  Here  Holmes  was  born,  almost  under  the  shadow  of  the  elms  in  the  Harvard 
College  yard,  August  29,  1809.  He  went  to  school  first  in  Cambridge,  then  at  Phillips 
Academy,  Andover.  While  at  the  Academy,  he  made  a  translation  in  heroic  couplets  of 
the  first  book  of  Virgil's  ^Eneid.  He  entered  Harvard  with  the  '  famous  class  of  '29  '  (see 
notes  on  '  The  Boys,'  pages  374,  375).  Beside  his  own  classmates  who  later  became  illus- 
trious, he  knew  in  college  Charles  Sunnier,  of  the  class  of  1830,  and  Wendell  Phillips 
and  John  Lothrop  Motley,  of  1831. 

After  graduation  he  spent  a  year  in  the  Law  School,  and  published  during  this  year 
more  than  a  score  of  poems,  many  of  them  in  a  college  periodical,  the  Collegian.  Most  of 
these  were  humorous  skits,  but  there  ring  out  among  them  the  thrilling  lines  of  '  Old 
Ironsides.'  Thus  from  the  beginning,  as  throughout  his  life,  love  of  fun  and  love  of 
country  were  two  chief  elements  in  Holmes's  poetry.  At  the  end  of  the  year  he  abandoned 
the  law  and  took  up  the  study  of  medicine.  From  1833  to  1835  he  spent  a  little  more 
than  two  years  in  study  abroad,  mostly  at  Paris,  and  came  back  to  take  his  degree  at  the 
Harvard  Medical  School  in  1836.  At  the  same  Commencement  he  read  his  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  poem:  'Poetry;  A  Metrical  Essay.'  This  was  published  later  in  the  year,  with 
other  poems,  among  them  the  '  Last  Leaf,'  which  had  already  appeared  in  a  miscellaneous 
collection,  the  Harbinger,  in  1833.  We  may  say  that  lie  '  commenced  '  doctor  and  poet  at 
the  same  time;  and  his  profession  and  his  poetry  were  to  be  the  two  chief  interests  of  his 
life,  neither  ever  crowding  out  the  other. 

During  the  following  years  he  published  or  edited  a  number  of  important  medical 
books,  was  professor  of  anatomy  at  Dartmouth  College  for  a  short  time,  settled  in  Boston 
in  1840  to  the  practice  of  his  profession,  and  was  married  in  that  year  to  Miss  Amelia 
Lee  Jackson.  In  1846  he  published  his  second  volume  of  collected  Poems,  and  in  1847 
was  appointed  professor  of  anatomy  and  physiology  at  Harvard,  a  position  which  he  held  as 
an  active  teacher  until  1882,  and  as  professor  emeritus  until  his  death,  in  1894,  in  all  forty- 
seven  years. 

Like  the  other  New  England  poets,  Holmes  came  rather  late  to  his  maturity  as  a  writer. 
It  was  not  until  he  began  the  Breakfast  Table  series,  on  which,  even  more  than  on  his 
verse,  will  depend  his  ultimate  fame,  that  he  began  also  to  write  his  best  poetry.  '  The 
Chambered  Nautilus,'  the  '  One-Hoss  Shay,'  '  Latter-Day  Warnings,'  '  Contentment,' 
'  Parson  Turell's  Legacy,'  '  The  Living  Temple,'  '  The  Voiceless,'  all  appeared  first  with 
the  Autocrat  papers  (1857-58).  Among  these  are  two  of  his  best  humorous  narratives,  and 
two  of  his  best  serious  lyrics.  In  the  Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table  (1859)  appeared  '  The 
Boys,'  '  Under  the  Violets,'  and  Holmes's  two  best  hymns.  The  Civil  War  period  called 
out  some  of  his  strongest  verse,  notably  '  Union  and  Liberty,'  '  The  Voyage  of  the  Good 
Ship  Union,'  and  the  poem  on  Bryant's  seventieth  birthday.  Meanwhile  he  had  begun 
that  series  of  poems  for  his  class  reunions,  in  which  there  is  not  a  break  for  thirty-nine 
years,  and  which  thus  forms  one  of  the  largest  and  most  characteristic  sections  of  his  work. 
Occasional  poetry  is  usually  doomed  to  sure  and  quick  oblivion.  Holmes  had  the  rare  fac- 
ulty of  giving  it  a  touch  of  greater  vitality,  while  at  the  same  time  fitting  it  closely  to  the 
occasion.  Class  loyalty,  and  college  loyalty,  and  the  lasting  reality  of  men's  friendships, 
are  not  merely  local  and  occasional  things.  Holmes  lias  expressed  these  in  his  class  poems, 
and  in  others  like  '  At  a  Meeting  of  Friends,'  and  '  At  the  Saturday  Club,'  and  in  his  trib- 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  67g 

utes  to  his  fellow  poets.  In  these  and  others  of  his  occasional  poems  (the  '  Voyage  of  the 
Good  Ship  Union  '  is  one  of  the  class  poems)  he  has  expressed  also  the  broader  loyalty  of 
patriotism,  both  local  and  national.  And  in  his  later  class  poems  the  charm  of  mellow, 
genial,  and  youthful  old  age  has  found  unique  expression. 

There  is  little  further  to  be  said  of  the  external  facts  of  Holmes's  life,  or  of  his  work. 
This  is  not  the  place  to  speak  of  his  novels  and  other  prose  work,  or  of  how  he  gave  to 
the  A  tlantic  Monthly  its  name  and  its  character.  Lowell  was  willing  to  accept  the  editor- 
ship oidy  on  condition  that  Holmes  should  be  a  constant  contributor,  and  later  he  said:  '  You 
see  the  Doctor  is  like  a  bright  mountain  stream  that  has  been  dammed  up  among  the  hills, 
and  is  waiting  for  an  outlet  into  the  Atlantic.'  His  later  volumes  of  verse  were  published, 
Songs  in  Many  Keys  in  1861,  Humorous  Poems  in  1865,  Songs  of  Many  Seasons  in  1874, 
Bunker  Hill  Battle,  etc.  in  1875,  The  Iron  Gate,  etc.  in  1880,  Before  the  Curfew  in  1888. 
He  died  October  7,  1894,  the  oldest,  and  the  '  last  survivor,'  of  our  elder  poets. 

If  Whittier  is  the  poet  of  a  single  section,  New  England,  Holmes  is  the  poet  of  a  single 
city,  Boston.  It  is  a  pity  that  he,  instead  of  Emerson,  did  not  write  the  quatrain 

What  care  though  rival  cities  soar 
Along  the  stormy  coast, 
Penn's  town,  New  York,  and  Baltimore, 
If  Boston  knew  the  most  ? 

Holmes  would  have  written  it  better,  and  with  some  peculiar  quaint  touch  of  his  own  humor. 
He  makes  one  of  his  characters  in  the  Autocrat  say:  'Boston  State  House  is  the  hub  of 
the  Solar  System.  You  could  n't  pry  that  out  of  a  Boston  man  if  you  had  the  tire  of  all 
creation  straightened  out  for  a  crowbar.'  He  says  it  in  satire,  but  he  has  a  subtle  feeling 
that  it  is  true.  On  the  whole  his  verse,  however,  is  to  a  less  degree  merely  local  in  flavor 
than  Ins  prose. 

Holmes  seldom  strikes  the  deeper  notes  or  touches  on  the  higher  themes  of  poetry, 
except  that  of  patriotism.  He  is  one  of  the  chief  poets  of  friendship  and  loyalty,  as  we 
have  seen,  but  he  expresses  friendship  rather  in  its  social  aspect,  and  chooses  only  to  sug- 
gest its  deeper  feelings.  So  always,  it  is  his  own  choice  to  touch  but  lightly  on  the  sur- 
face of  things.  But  if  he  is  not  among  the  great  poets,  he  is  among  the  rare.  It  is  even 
one  of  the  rarest  things  to  make  real  poetry  out  of  mere  wit  and  humor,  as  he  has  so  often 
done.  In  his  humorous  narratives,  from  the  '  One-Hoss  Shay  '  to  the  '  Broomstick  Train,' 
and  perhaps  most  of  all  in  '  How  the  Old  Horse  won  the  Bet,'  his  verse  sparkles  and 
crackles  in  every  line.  And  he  has  written  two  lyrics  that  are  sure  to  live,  the  one  serious, 
and  the  other  so  interwoven  of  fun  and  pathos  that  we  shall  never  know  whether  it  be 
serious  or  not:  the  '  Chambered  Nautilus,'  and  the  '  Last  Leaf.' 

JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  was  born  February  22, 1819,  in  Cambridge,  at « Elmwood,'  the 
house  which  lie  occupied  during  so  large  a  part  of  his  life.  The  Lowells  were  an  old  New 
England  family,  going  back,  in  Massachusetts  Cojpny,  to  1639.  The  poet's  father,  grand- 
father, and  great-grandfather  were  graduates  of  Harvard  College.  It  was  John  Lowell, 
his  grandfather,  who  as  a  member  of  the  Constitutional  Convention  of  Massachusetts  in 
1780  introduced  into  the  Bill  of  Rights  of  the  State  a  clause  abolishing  slavery  — '  a  good 
sort  of  grandfather  for  the  author  of  the  Bigloio  Papers,'  as  Dr.  Edward  Everett  Hale 
says.  The  great-grandfather  was  a  clergyman,  the  grandfather  a  lawyer,  and  the 
father  again  a  clergyman,  pastor  of  the  First  Church  in  Boston.  The  family  had  always 
been  distinguished  for  ability  and  public  spirit.  An  uncle  of  the  poet,  Francis  Cabot 
Lowell,  was  one  of  the  first  successful  manufacturers  of  New  England,  and  for  him  the 
city  of  Lowell  was  named.  Another  uncle,  John  Lowell,  Jr.,  founded  the  Lowell  Insti- 
tute in  Boston. 

Lowell's  mother  was  of  Orkney  descent.  Both  her  father,  Keith  Spence,  and  her 
mother's  father,  Robert  Traill,  were  New  England  merchants  who  had  come  from  the 


680  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

Orkney  Islands.  Her  mother's  mother,  Mary  Whipple,  was,  however,  of  New  England 
ancestry.  Mary  Whipple's  father,  William  Whipple,  was  one  of  the  signers  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  and  her  mother  belonged  to  another  old  New  England 
family,  the  Cutts,  going  back  to  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century  in  New  Eng- 
land. 

James  Russell  Lowell  was  the  youngest  of  six  brothers  and  sisters.  His  home  train- 
ing, as  in  the  case  of  Holmes,  was  that  of  a  scholarly  minister's  family,  illuminated 
in  his  case  by  his  mother's  strong  imaginative  temperament  and  skill  hi  music.  As  a 
child,  he  was  read  to  sleep  from  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene.  He  was  surrounded  by  books 
and  by  nature  (Elmwood  being  then  at  a  considerable  distance  from  other  houses, 
among  the  woods  and  meadows),  and  from  the  first  he  showed  an  almost  passionate  love 
of  both. 

After  fitting  for  college  in  a  Cambridge  school,  he  entered  Harvard  in  1834,  and  had 
among  his  teachers  there  C.  C.  Felton,  professor  of  Greek  and  later  president  of  the 
college  (celebrated  by  Longfellow  in  '  Three  Friends  of  Mine  ' ),  Benjamin  Peirce,  the 
mathematician  of  Holmes's  '  famous  Class  of  '29,'  George  Ticknor,  Longfellow's  predeces- 
sor in  the  Smith  professorship  of  Belles  Lettres,  and,  in  the  last  half  of  his  course,  Long- 
fellow himself.  Lowell  read  in  college,  he  tells  us,  '  almost  everything  except  the 
text-books  prescribed  by  the  faculty.'  He  had  already  devoured  Scott's  novels  before 
entering  college.  Now  he  read  Dante,  Tasso,  Montaigne,  the  old  English  dramatists, 
Butler,  Cowper,  Burns,  Landor,  Byron,  Coleridge,  Keats,  Carlyle,  and  Milton,  and,  under 
the  impulse  of  his  study  of  Milton,  something  of  the  classics.  As  Dr.  Hale  tells  us  in  his 
reminiscences,  the  college  boys  of  those  days  were  passionately  devoted  to  literature,  and 
Lowell's  knowledge  and  ability  made  him  a  leader  among  them.  He  was  an  editor  of 
Harvardiana,  and  was  elected  class  poet.  During  his  senior  year  he  became  so  much 
more  devoted  to  reading  than  to  studying,  and  so  regardless  of  prescribed  exercises,  in- 
cluding chapel,  that  he  was  suspended  '  on  account  of  continued  neglect  of  his  college 
duties,'  as  it  was  expressed  in  the  vote  of  the  faculty  ;  and  was  rusticated  at  Concord, 
where  he  lived  and  studied  in  the  household  of  the  Rev.  Barzillai  Frost.  During  this 
rustication  he  perhaps  found  models  both  for  the  Rev.  Homer  Wilbur  and  for  Hosea 
Biglow. 

In  any  case,  he  met  Emerson,  and  walked  and  talked  with  him,  but  at  first  was  influ- 
enced more  toward  opposition  than  toward  discipleship.  In  his  class  poem,  which  he  was 
not  allowed  to  deliver,  but  which  he  printed  for  distribution  among  his  classmates,  he 
ridiculed  the  transcendentalists  and  the  abolitionists,  and,  in  a  mild  way,  Emerson  him- 
self. He  loyally  sent  a  copy  of  the  poem  to  Emerson,  with  a  note  excusing  himself  for 
these  liberties,  but  stoutly  maintaining  his  own  opinions.  Emerson's  influence  gradually 
'  struck  iii,'  however,  and  Lowell  became,  though  not  a  disciple,  an  ardent  admirer.  Late 
in  life  he  signed  himself  Emerson's  '  liegeman,'  and  said  that  he  for  one  must  '  Obey  the 
voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime.'  We  also  find  the  anti-slavery  feeling  growing  in  him  during 
this  same  year,  and  beginning  to  dominate  his  thought  at  least  a  year  before  he  first  met 
Miss  Maria  White,  to  whose  influence  it  has  iisually  been  attributed.  '  The  abolitionists,' 
he  wrote  in  November,  1838,  '  are  the  enly  ones  with  whom  I  sympathize  of  the  present 
extant  parties.' 

He  had  been  allowed  to  return  to  Cambridge  just  in  time  to  graduate  with  his  class  in 
1838.  Not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  he,  like  Holmes,  began  the  study  of  the  law,  and 
graduated  from  the  Law  School  in  1840.  During  these  two  years  he  continued  his  eager 
reading,  and  now  paid  much  more  attention  to  the  classics  than  he  had  done  in  college 
when  they  were  prescribed  subjects.  Ovid,  Theocritus,  and  the  Greek  dramatists  seem  to 
have  been  his  favorites.  In  August,  1840,  he  graduated  from  the  Law  School,  and  became 
engaged  to  Miss  Maria  White,  whom  he  had  met  late  in  the  previous  year.  He  entered  a 
law  office  in  Boston,  but  spent  most  of  his  time  in  reading  and  in  writing  verse,  and  seems 
never  to  have  had,  on  his  own  account,  that  '  First  Client '  whose  imaginary  existence 
offered  the  material  of  his  later  humorous  sketch.  Late  in  this  year  (1840)  he  published 
his  first  book  of  verse,  A  Year's  Life,  dated  1841  ;  and  in  1841-1842  he  published  many 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  681 

poems  and  essays  in  the  magazines  of  the  time.  Among  his  poems  of  this  period  are  the 
beautiful  lyrics,  '  My  Love,'  '  Irene,'  and  the  song  '  O  Moonlight  deep  and  tender  ; '  and 
in  many  of  the  sonnets  there  is  a  personal  sincerity  and  a  fineness  of  poetic  quality  to  be 
found  in  few  other  American  sonnets.  These  poems  express  his  feeling  for  Miss  White, 
whose  influence  upon  him  was  strong  and  always  ideal.  It  was  partly  through  her  influ- 
ence, and  partly  through  his  own  natural  development,  that  Lowell  had  now  openly  joined 
forces  with  the  extreme  abolitionists,  at  a  time  when  abolition  seemed  mere  quixotism, 
was  despised  by  almost  all  conservative  people,  even  in  New  England,  and  shut  out  its 
devotees  from  the  social  circles  to  which  Lowell  was  born,  and  from  many  of  the  most 
important  literary  magazines  and  publishing  houses. 

At  the  end  of  1842  Lowell  entirely  gave  up  the  law,  and  with  Robert  Carter  attempted 
to  start  a  new  magazine,  The  Pioneer.  This  was  not  a  success  financially,  and  left 
Lowell  considerably  in  debt  by  its  failure  after  the  third  number  had  been  published. 
The  list  of  contributors  to  the  three  numbers  which  did  appear  included  most  of  the  chief 
contemporary  writers,  —  Hawthorne,  Whither,  Poe,  W.  W.  Story,  Thomas  William 
Parsons,  and  Lowell.  Lowell  was  in  New  York  during  the  winter  of  1842-43,  and  made 
many  acquaintances  and  friends  among  the  men  of  letters  there.  He  published  a  new 
volume  of  Poems  in  December,  1843  (dated  1844),  which  contained  '  Rhoacus,'  '  An 
Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car,'  '  The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus,'  the  '  Stanzas  on  Freedom,' 
etc.  A  year  later,  in  December,  1844,  he  published  Conversations  on  Some  of  the  Old  Poets. 
Both  these  volumes  were  republished  in  London,  and  they  brought  Lowell  considerable 
reputation  in  England  and  in  America. 

Lowell  was  married  to  Miss  White  in  December,  1844,  and  for  some  months  after  his 
marriage  lived  in  Philadelphia,  where  he  was  employed  as  editorial  writer  on  the  Penn- 
sylvania Freeman  at  the  munificent  salary  of  ten  dollars  a  month.  In  May,  1845,  he  re- 
turned to  Elmwood,  where  he  lived  until  his  first  trip  to  Europe,  in  1851.  These  were  the 
busiest  and  poetically  the  most  productive  years  of  his  life,  and  they  were  years  full  of 
both  joy  and  sorrow  in  his  home  life,  and  of  growing  friendships  with  his  chief  contem- 
poraries, most  of  them,  like  Holmes  and  Longfellow,  his  elders  by  ten  years  or  more. 
His  first  child,  Blanche,  was  born  December  31,  1845,  and  died  March  19, 1847.  The  sec- 
ond daughter,  Mabel,  was  born  September  9,  1847.  Lowell  is  not  so  popular  a  poet  of 
the  home  as  Longfellow,  but  in  '  The  First  Snowfall,'  '  The  Changeling,'  '  She  Came  and 
Went,'  'I thought  our  love  at  full,  but  I  did  err,'  and  later,  in  '  After  the  Burial,'  '  The 
Dead  House,'  '  The  Wind-Harp,'  and  '  Auf  Wiedersehen,'  he  has  written  poems  of  home 
joys  and  sorrows  that  have  a  deeper  and  more  intimate  appeal. 

The  year  1848  has  been  called  by  Lowell's  latest  biographer  his  '  annus  mirabilis.' 
Just  at  the  end  of  1847  appeared  his  Poems,  Second  Series  (dated  1848),  containing  the 
noble  poem  'Columbus;'  the  characteristic  'Indian  Summer  Reverie ;'' The  Present 
Crisis,'  as  strong  and  as  universal  in  its  truth  as  the  very  best  of  Whittier's  work;  'To 
the  Dandelion ; '  and  other  important  short  poems.  In  1848  were  published  the  Biglow 
Papers,  First  Series,  the  Fable  for  Critics,  and  the  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  besides  some 
forty  articles  and  poems  in  various  periodicals.  From  1846  to  1850  Lowell  was  a  regular 
contributor  to  the  National  Anti-Slavery  Standard.  In  July,  1851,  he  sailed  for  Europe, 
spent  nearly  a  year  in  Italy,  and  returned  home  through  Switzerland,  Germany,  France, 
and  England,  having  for  companions  on  the  return  voyage  Thackeray  and  Clough.  The 
journey  had  been  undertaken  partly  on  account  of  Mrs.  Lowell's  health,  but  she  con- 
tinued to  fail,  and  died  October  21,  1853. 

Holmes  had  given  his  lectures  on  the  English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  at  the 
Lowell  Institute  in  1853.  In  the  winter  of  1854-55  Lowell  gave  there  a  general  course 
on  poetry,  which  marked  the  beginning  of  his  mature  criticism,  and  which  seems  to  have 
impressed  its  hearers  as  the  best  lecture-course  ever  given  at  this  famous  Institute. 
Three  weeks  after  the  beginning  of  the  course  he  was  appointed  to  the  Smith  Professor- 
ship at  Harvard  (which  Longfellow  had  just  resigned),  with  a  year's  leave  of  absence  for 
study  and  travel  abroad.  He  held  this  professorship,  except  for  an  interval  of  two  years, 
until  his  appointment  as  Minister  to  Spain  in  1877.  Since  Lowell's  resignation  of  it  no 


682  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

appointment  has  been  made,  and  it  remains  distinguished  by  the  names  of  its  three  holders, 
Ticknor,  Longfellow,  Lowell. 

During  his  year  of  preparation  Lowell  went  to  Paris  (and  to  Chartres,  where  he  re« 
ceived  the  impressions  out  of  which  grew  his  poem  '  The  Cathedral ') ;  then  to  London, 
where  he  visited  Thackeray  and  Leigh  Hunt;  then  to  Dresden  for  the  winter,  where  he 
attended  lectures  at  the  University.  There  is  something  pathetic  —  or  even  tragic  — 
in  the  idea  of  putting  the  poet  to  school  again  after  he  has  reached  middle  age,  to  make 
of  him  a  professor  !  —  even  so  distinguished  a  professor  as  Lowell  was.  In  the  spring  he 
escaped  for  another  visit  to  Italv,  and  returned  to  America  in  August. 

He  taught  regularly  from  1856  to  1872,  giving  courses  on  Dante,  German  Literature, 
Spanish  Literature  (especially  Don  Quixote),  and  later  on  old  French;  and  public  lec- 
tures on  English  Poetry  and  Belles  Lettres.  He  was  not  so  faithful  a  routine  teacher  as 
Longfellow,  but  many  students  have  borne  witness  to  the  inspiration  received  from  him. 
He  was  not  of  course  a  scholar  in  the  narrow  modern  sense  of  the  word,  except  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  in  old  French;  but  he  was  an  omnivorous  reader,  and  his  general  knowledge 
of  literature  was  probably  not  surpassed  hi  breadth  or  intimacy  by  that  of  any  teacher  in 
his  time. 

Lowell  was  the  first  editor-in-chief  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  from  its  foundation  in  1857 
until  1861.  From  1864  to  1872  he  was  editor,  with  his  close  friend,  Mr.  Charles  Eliot 
Norton,  of  the  North  American  Review.  Leaving  out  of  account  the  second  series  of  the 
Biglow  Papers,  all  of  which  appeared  in  the  A'lantic  Monthly  from  1862  to  1866,  his  con- 
tributions to  both  of  these  reviews  were  much  more  important  in  prose  than  in  verie. 
During  the  first  part  of  the  period,  his  articles  dealt  particularly  with  public  affairs,  and 
were  notable  for  his  strong  support  of  Lincoln.  (See  note  on  page  490.)  In  the  later  part 
of  the  period  appeared  some  of  Lowell's  best  literary  essays,  which  were  collected  hi  Among 
My  Books  (1870),  My  Study  Windows  (1871),  and  Among  My  Books,  Second  Series  (1876). 
In  1869  was  published  Under  the  Willows  and  Other  Poems,  and  hi  1870  The  Cathedral. 

In  1872,  Lowell  asked  the  Harvard  authorities  for  leave  of  absence  with  half  pay, 
which  is  now  granted  to  most  college  professors  every  seventh  year.  After  his  sixteen 
years  of  continuous  teaching,  however,  this  was  refused  him,  and  he  resigned  his  position. 
The  years  1872-74  he  spent  hi  Europe,  mostly  at  Paris,  Rome,  and  Florence.  While  in 
England  he  received  the  degrees  of  D.  C.  L.  from  Oxford  and  LL.  D.  from  Cambridge. 
On  his  return  in  1874  he  again  took  up  his  professorship. 

Lowell's  poems  of  the  war  period,  even  if  we  were  to  leave  out  of  account  the  second 
series  of  the  Biglow  Papers,  which  stand  by  themselves  and  are  incomparable,  must  still 
be  considered  more  important  than  those  of  any  other  poet  except  Whitman.  They  in- 
clude 'The  Washers  of  the  Shroud'  (1861),  tli3  c.emorial  poem  to  Robert  Gould  Shaw 
(1864),  '  On  Board  the  '76  '  (1865),  and  culminate  hi  the  <  Commemoration  Ode,'  which 
seems  by  almost  universal  consent  to  be  ranked  as  the  greatest  single  poem  yet  written 
in  America.  Lowell  had  the  right  to  speak  as  he  did  in  these  poems  and  in  the  Biglow 
Papers.  He  had  not,  like  Longfellow  and  Holmes,  any  son  of  his  own  to  send  to  the  war 
(though  it  is  certain  that  if  there  had  been  a  sou  in  Lowell's  family,  he  would  have  gone), 
but  his  nephews,  '  the  hope  of  our  race,'  as  he  calls  them,  whom  he  loved  almost  as  if 
they  were  his  own  sons,  —  three  as  noole  young  men  as  fought  on  either  side,  —  all  won 
their  death-wounds  hi  battle.  Lowell's  '  Commemoration  Ode,'  the  Biglow  Papers,  and 
the  Three  Memorial  Poems,  make  him  unquestionably  our  greatest  poet  of  patriotism. 

Yet,  when  he  was  aroused  to  bitter  denunciation  of  the  corruption  in  public  life  revealed 
under  Grant's  administration,  and  in  his  'Agassiz  '  wrote  a  few  stinging  lines  about  the 
spectacle  which  '  The  land  of  honest  Abraham  '  (or,  as  he  first  wrote  it,  the  '  land  of 
brpken  promise  ')  was  then  offering  to  the  world,  he  naturally  received  a  storm  of  abuse 
from  the  party  press  of  the  time.  His  sufficient  answer  was  the  three  memorial  poems 
of  1875  and  1876.  In  his  Epistle  to  George  William  Curtis,  written  in  1874,  but  not 
published  till  1888,  he  answered  for  himself  more  directly :  — • 

Was  I  too  bitter?  Who  his  phrase  can  choose 
That  sees  the  life-blood  of  his  dearest  ooze  ? 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL  683 


I  loved  my  Country  so  as  only  they 

Who  love  a  mother  fit  to  die  for  may ; 

I  loved  her  old  renown,  her  stainless  fame,  — 

"What  better  proof  than  that  I  loathed  her  shame  ? 

Lowell  was  delegate  to  the  Republican  Convention,  and  presidential  elector,  in  1876. 
In  1877  he  was  appointed  Minister  to  Spain,  where  he  at  once  won  the  sympathies  of  the 
Spanish  people.  His  coming  was  looked  on  as  a  revival  of  the  days  when  Irving  was 
minister.  Among  other  honors,  he  received  that  of  an  election  to  the  Spanish  Academy, 
In  January,  1880,  he  was  transferred  to  London,  the  most  important  post  in  the  American 
diplomatic  service.  Here  he  was  equally  successful  in  his  larger  field.  He  did  more 
than  any  other  minister  has  done  to  interpret  to  England  the  character  and  the  strength 
of  America,  and  to  lay  the  foundations  of  that  friendship,  based  on  mutual  respect,  which 
has  since  been  built  up  between  the  two  chief  branches  of  the  English-speaking  race.  It 
has  been  said  that  he  was  the  most  popular  man  in  England.  Certainly  no  one  was  more 
in  demand  on  every  public  occasion,  especially  where  speech-making  was  in  order.  Lowell's 
speeches  were  clever,  witty,  always  fitted  to  the  occasion,  and,  wherever  this  was  appro- 
priate, were  weighty  and  important  ;  and  they  were  almost  as  numerous  as  the  days  of 
the  year.  In  these  speeches  he  was  always,  on  occasion,  strongly  American  and  strongly 
democratic.  There  is  no  better  exposition  of  the  American  idea  than  his  address  on 
*  Democracy '  at  Manchester.  And  he  conducted  public  affairs  with  absolute  firmness, 
never  yielding  anything  so  far  as  America  was  in  the  right.  '  With  all  his  grace,'  it  has 
been  well  said,  '  there  was  a  plainness  of  purpose  that  could  not  be  mistaken.'  Yet  during 
his  mission,  and  after  his  return  to  America,  he  was  again  bitterly  assailed  by  the  parti- 
san press,  who  blamed  him  for  his  very  success  and  for  the  respect  which  he  had  won. 
Because  he  was  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  the  world,  and  had  conducted  affairs  with 
courtesy  as  well  as  firmness,  he  was  accused  of  being  un-American,  and  of  toadying  to  the 
British  nobility.  Nothing  could  be  more  unjust  or  farther  from  the  truth.  It  was  pre- 
cisely because  he  was  always  and  strongly  American  that  he  won  the  respect  of  the  Eng- 
lish. In  many  other  Americans  of  culture,  as  for  instance  Washington  Irving  and  Mr. 
Charles  Eliot  Norton,  they  had  thought  they  found  simply  Englishmen  transferred  to  an 
unfortunate  environment  and  making  the  best  of  it.  Lowell  compelled  them  to  feel  that 
he  was  always,  as  one  of  them  has  expressed  it,  'a  scrappy  Yankee, 'and  a  typical  Yankee. 
It  was  Lowell's  great  service  to  prove  that  a  thoroughly  typical  American  could  be  also 
a  thorough  gentleman,  a  man  of  broad  culture,  and,  in  every  best  sense,  a  man  of  the 
world. 

He  returned  to  America  in  1885.  Shortly  before  his  return  the  second  Mrs.  Lowell 
died.  He  had  married,  in  September,  1857,  the  sister  of  a  close  friend  of  his  first  wife, 
who  had  been  chosen  by  her  to  care  for  her  only  daughter.  He  came  back  to  find  many 
of  his  best  friends  gone,  —  among  them  Longfellow  and  Emerson,  —  but  younger  friends 
still  remained  to  him,  like  George  William  Curtis,  Mr.  Norton,  and  Mr.  Howells.  He 
wrote  in  the  '  Postscript '  (1887)  of  his  '  Epistle  to  George  William  Curtis: '  — 

Home  am  I  come :  not,  as  I  hoped  might  be, 

To  the  old  haunts,  too  full  of  ghosts  for  me, 

But  to  the  olden  dreams  that  time  endears, 

And  the  loved  books  that  younger  grow  with  years ; 

To  country  rambles,  timing  with  my  tread 

Some  happier  verse  that  carols  in  my  head, 

Yet  all  with  sense  of  something  vainly  missed, 

Of  something  lost,  but  when  I  never  wist. 

How  empty  seems  to  me  the  populous  street, 

One  figure  gone  I  daily  loved  to  meet,  — 

The  clear,  sweet  singer  with  the  crown  of  snow 

Not  whiter  than  the  thoughts  that  housed  below  \ 

And,  ah,  what  absence  feel  I  at  my  side, 

Like  Dante  when  he  missed  his  laurelled  guide, 

What  sense  of  diminution  in  the  air 

Once  so  inspiring,  Emerson  not  there ! 

But  life  is  sweet,  though  all  that  makes  it  sweet 

Lessen  like  sound  of  friends'  departing  feet. 

And  Death  is  beautiful  as  feet  of  friend 


684  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

Coming  with  welcome  at  our  journey's  end ; 
For  me  Fate  gave,  whatever  she  else  denied, 
A  nature  sloping  to  the  southern  side  ; 
I  thank  her  for  it,  though  when  clouds  arise 
Such  natures  double-darken  gloomy  skies. 

Little  I  ask  of  Fate ;  will  she  refuse 

Some  days  of  reconcilement  with  the  Muse  ? 

I  take  my  reed  again  and  blow  it  free 

Of  dusty  silence,  murmuring,  '  Sing  to  me !  ' 

These  lines  describe  his  last  years.  He  returned  to  poetry;  he  completed  his  '  En- 
dymion,'  which  has  in  it  a  quality  rare  in  Lowell's  work,  the  poetic  suggestion  of  more  than 
is  expressed;  and  he  wrote  some  exquisite  lyrics,  with  a  lightness  of  touch  he  had  not 
possessed  before,  and  some  poems  full  of  his  best  strength,  like  those  on  '  Turner's  Old 
Te'me'raire  '  and  on  Grant.  His  last  years  gave  us  also  important  addresses  like  those  on 
1  The  Independent  in  Politics,'  and  '  Our  Literature,'  and  charming  essays  like  that  on 
•  Izaak  Walton.'  He  died  at  Elmwood,  August  12,  1891. 

Lowell  is  the  largest  and  best  rounded  personality  that  our  literature  yet  possesses.  He 
has  unquestionably  written  our  best  literary  essays,  and  perhaps  also  our  best  political 
essays  in  literary  form.  In  his  poetry  he  has  all  but  surpassed  the  other  poets,  each 
in  his  own  field.  He  is  as  true  a  nature  poet  as  Bryant;  though  he  has  nothing  to 
compare  with  the  higher  ranges  of  Bryant's  nature  poetry,  like  the  '  Forest  Hymn,'  yet 
his  treatment  of  Nature  in  her  gentler  aspects  can  well  meet  the  comparison.  '  To  a 
Dandelion,'  for  instance,  may  be  set  beside  '  To  the  Fringed  Gentian.'  What  is  more  im- 
portant, he  writes  of  Nature  with  a  happy  intimacy  which  Bryant  never  had,  as  in  the 
'  Indian  Summer  Reverie  '  and  '  Sunthin'  in  the  Pastoral  Line,'  and  in  many  of  the  essays, 
like  '  My  Garden  Acquaintance '  and  '  A  Good  Word  for  Winter.'  There  is  a  personal 
genuineness  in  his  early  work,  especially  the  sonnets,  which  we  do  not  find  elsewhere 
except  in  Longfellow  or  Whittier,  and  in  them  it  hardly  has  Lowell's  deeper  poetic  quality; 
while  in  his  later  work,  there  is  a  high  dignity  which  we  do  not  find  elsewhere  except  in 
Bryant.  He  is  a  true  poet  of  New  England  country  life,  once  at  least,  in  '  The  Courtin',' 
surpassing  Whittier  in  his  own  field.  He  has  written  poems  of  sincere  thought,  though 
without  the  condensation  and  the  fitness  of  form  of  Emerson  at  his  best,  in  '  Bibliolatres,' 
'  The  Lesson,'  '  Masaccio,'  '  The  Miner,'  '  Turner's  Old  Te'me'raire,'  etc. ;  and  these  poems 
are  somewhat  more  human  in  quality  than  Emerson's.  He  is  our  greatest  humorist;  the 
Biglow  Papers  have  far  broader  and  more  significant  power  than  the  best  of  Holmes's 
humor,  and  the  '  Fable  for  Critics '  is  almost  as  sparkling  as  the  best  wit  of  Holmes. 
If  he  is  not  a  greater  poet  of  occasions  than  Holmes,  he  is  certainly  a  poet  of  greater 
occasions,  and  adequate  to  them.  He  has  a  lightness  of  touch  in  familiar  verse  that  no  one 
of  our  greater  poets  had  (though  it  is  to  be  found  in  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  and  others), 
as  in  '  Hebe,'  '  The  Pregnant  Comment,'  '  An  Ember  Picture '  and  '  Telepathy.'  Yet 
there  is  something  lacking  in  most  of  his  work,  something  of  charm,  especially  of  rhythmic 
charm,  something  of  poetic  suggestiveness,  something  which  he  seems  always  striving 
after  (see '  L'Envoi  to  the  Muse,' '  Auspex,'  and  '  The  Secret '),  and  which  now  and  then  he 
does  almost  attain,  as  in  '  In  the  Twilight.'  He  lacks,  usually,  just  that  last  touch  of  genius, 
that '  St.  Elmo's  Fire  '  playing  over  all,  which  he  so  well  describes  in  his  own  essay  on  Keats. 
His  life  and  character  possessed  something  of  this  charm  which  did  not  quite  get 
expression  in  his  verse.  He  had  a  genius  for  friendship;  he  was  one  of  the  best  talkers, 
and  by  far  the  best  letter- writer,  we  have  had;  and  we  feel  that  uncaptured  charm 
hovering  near  some  of  his  poems  of  personal  moods,  like  '  My  Study  Fire,'  '  To  Charles 
Eliot  Norton,'  or  the  '  Envoi  to  the  Muse  '  and  the  others  just  mentioned.  In  personality, 
he  was  the  fine  flower  of  American  society.  Noble  and  varied  as  his  verse  is,  he  lived 
out  his  own  motto,  — 

The  Epic  of  a  man  rehearse, 

Be  something  better  than  thy  verse. 

He  is  our  noblest  patriot-poet,  and  our  most  complete  and  well-rounded  man. 


WALT   WHITMAN  685 


WALT  WHITMAN 

WHITMAN,  like  Holmes,  was  of  combined  Connecticut  and  Dutch  ancestry.  His  imme- 
diate ancestors,  like  Whittier's,  were  farmers,  but  more  prosperous,  his  father  owning 
five  hundred  acres  of  good  land  on  Long  Island,  which  Whitman  preferred  to  call  by  its 
Indian  name  of  Paumanok.  His  mother's  family  were  also  prosperous  farmers.  On  his 
father's  side,  the  first  American  ancestor,  Rev.  Zachariah  Whitman,  came  to  this  country 
in  1635  and  settled  at  Milford,  Conn.  In  the  last  part  of  the  seventeenth  century  Long 
Island  was  settled,  largely  from  Connecticut,  and  the  son  of  Rev.  Zachariah  Whitman 
crossed  the  Sound  with  the  others.  At  about  the  same  time  Whitman's  ancestors  on  his 
mother's  side,  a  family  of  Dutch  origin,  the  Van  Velsors,  settled  in  Long  Island  a  little 
further  to  the  west,  nearer  New  York.  There  was  also  Quaker  blood  in  Whitman's  veins, 
coming  from  his  maternal  grandmother. 

Whitman's  father,  Walter  Whitman,  was  a  carpenter  and  builder  as  well  as  a  farmer, 
and  lived  at  Huntingtop,  Long  Island.  There  Walt  Whitman  was  born,  May  31,  1819, 
the  second  of  nine  children.  He  was  christened  Walter,  but  to  distinguish  him  from  his 
father  was  called  Walt,  and  he  kept  this  name  throughout  his  life.  When  he  was  four 
years  old  the  family  moved  to  Brooklyn,  and  there  Walt  attended  the  public  schools.  He 
was  still  almost  as  much  a  country  as  a  city  boy,  however.  He  tells  of  his  expeditions 
with  his  comrades  on  the  ice  of  the  Long  Island  bays  in  the  winter,  and  of  his  own  walks 
on  the  bare  shores  of  Coney  Island  in  summer,  which  then,  he  says,  '  I  had  all  to  myself.' 
These  expeditions  to  deserted  Coney  Island  lasted  until  he  was  more  than  thirty  years 
old,  and  he  tells  how,  in  its  solitudes,  he  '  loved  after  bathing  to  race  up  and  down  the 
hard  sand,  and  declaim  Homer  and  Shakspere  to  the  surf  and  sea-gulls  by  the  hour.' 
In  1833-34  be  was  in  printing  offices  in  Brooklyn,  learning  the  trade,  and  until  1837 
worked  as  compositor  in  Brooklyn  and  New  York.  For  the  following  year  or  two  he 
taught  school  in  country  towns  on  Long  Island,  and  '  boarded  round.'  '  This,'  he  says,  '  I 
consider  one  of  my  best  experiences  and  deepest  lessons  in  human  nature  behind  the 
scenes  and  in  the  masses.'  In  the  following  year  (1839-40),  he  started  and  published  a 
weekly  paper  in  his  native  town,  probably  doing  both  the  writing  and  the  typesetting  him- 
self. '  All  these  years,'  he  says,  '  I  was  down  Long  Island  more  or  less  every  summer, 
now  east,  now  west,  sometimes  months  at  a  stretch.'  For  the  five  years  following  1840, 
all  the  time,  and  off  and  on  for  the  next  fifteen  years,  he  lived  winters  in  Brooklyn, 
working  more  or  less  as  a  compositor  in  New  York  city.  He  tells  how  his  life  was 
'  curiously  identified  with  Fulton  Ferry  '  (see  the  passage  quoted  in  full  in  the  note  on 
'  Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry '),  how  he  crossed  almost  daily,  often  in  the  pilot-house,  famil- 
iar with  all  the  pilots,  as  he  was  in  New  York  with  all  the  omnibus  drivers,  with  whom 
he  spent  many  hours  riding  the  length  of  Broadway.  He  passionately  loved  the  great  city 
and  its  sights  and  its  people,  and  no  one  has  given  so  vivid  a  picture  of  it  either  in  verse 
or  in  prose.  He  had  a  passion  for  music  also,  spent  night  after  night  at  the  opera,  and 
went  much  to  the  theatre.  In  1848-49  he  was  editor  of  the  Brooklyn  Eagle.  He  had 
written  more  or  less  since  1839  for  newspapers  and  magazines,  among  others  the  Demo- 
cratic Review.  A  few  specimens  of  this  early  writing,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  are  pre- 
served in  his  Complete  Prose  Works  (pages  334-374).  The  'Dough-Face  Song'  is  good 
ordinary  rhyme,  and  in  both  substance  and  form  reminds  us  a  little  of  the  first  series  of 
the  Biglow  Papers,  though  it  is  dated  earlier.  His  prose,  so  far  as  preserved,  consists  of 
story-sketches,  which  hold  the  reader's  interest  but  are  in  no  way  remarkable.  Among 
other  things  he  wrote  at  this  time  a  temperance  tract,  Franklin  Evans. 

In  1849  -he  broke  away  from  all  regular  employment,  and  started  off  on  a  leisurely  and 
apparently  purposeless  excursion,  which  was  to  be  of  great  importance  in  forming  the  char- 
acter of  his  later  work.  He  calls  it  '  a  leisurely  journey  and  working  expedition.'  It 
must  be  described  in  his  own  words  of  brief  summary.  He  went,  he  says,  with  his  brother 
Jeff,  '  through  all  the  Middle  States,  and  down  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  rivers.  Lived 
awhile  ha  New  Orleans,  and  work'd  there  on  the  editorial  staff  of  "  daily  Crescent "  news- 


686  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

paper.  After  a  time  plodded  back  northward,  up  the  Mississippi,  and  around  to  and  by 
way  of  the  Great  Lakes,  Michigan,  Huron,  and  Erie,  to  Niagara  falls  and  lower  Canada, 
finally  returning  through  central  New  York  and  down  the  Hudson  ;  traveling  altogether 
probably  8,000  miles  this  trip,  to  and  fro.'  From  what  we  know  of  his  life  in  New  York 
and  Brooklyn,  we  can  infer  what  this  expedition  was  to  him.  Speaking  of  the  origin  of 
Leaves  of  Grass,  he  once  said,  '  Remember,  the  book  arose  out  of  my  life  in  Brooklyn  and 
New  York  from  1838  to  1853,  absorbing  a  million  people,  for  fifteen  years,  with  an  in- 
timacy, an  eagerness,  an  abandon,  probably  never  equalled.'  With  the  same  passion  he 
must  have  absorbed  the  sights  and  the  life  of  the  country  he  passed  through  —  almost  the 
whole  of  the  United  States  at  that  time  —  on  this  8,000  mile  excursion,  making  his  own 
way,  working  here  and  there  at  his  trade,  living  the  life  of  the  people.  There  are  vivid 
reminiscences  of  the  South  constantly  recurring  in  his  later  writing,  as  in  the  poem  of  the 
live-oak;  and  there  is  everywhere  present  the  feeling  of  bigness,  freedom,  and  heartiness, 
of  the  life  of  the  West. 

On  his  return,  he  took  up  for  a  little  while  his  former  occupations,  editing  and  printing 
a  daily  and  weekly  paper,  the  Freeman,  and  engaging,  with  his  father,  as  he  had  done 
before  going  away,  in  the  business  of  building  and  selling  houses  in  Brooklyn.  But  he 
had  now  conceived  the  work  which  he  was  to  do,  to  chant  the  songs  of  democracy  as  he 
understood  it,  to  '  Compose  a  march  for  these  States.'  According  to  his  first  biographer, 
Dr.  Bucke,  he  experienced  a  sort  of  conversion,  and,  like  other  mystics,  felt  his  life-work 
given  him  as  a  mission.  At  any  rate,  he  lost  interest  in  other  occupations,  except  so  far 
as  was  necessary  for  simple  self-support,  gave  up  the  successful  house-building  business, 
and  devoted  himself  to  the  composition  of  his  Leaves  of  Grass.  This  was  issued  without 
any  publisher,  the  typesetting  and  printing  having  been  done  partly  by  Whitman  himself, 
in  1855. 

Apparently  the  last  specimen  we  possess  of  Whitman's  earlier  style  is  the  poem  '  Sail- 
ing the  Mississippi  at  Midnight,'  probably  written  in  1849,  and  given,  as  by  a  rather 
pleasant  irony  are  all  the  specimens  which  we  have  of  his  regular  verse,  in  the  Prose 
Works.  I  quote  from  what  seems  to  be  its  original  form,  in  the  Notes  and  Fragments :  — 

How  solemn  !  sweeping  this  dense  black  tide  ! 

No  friendly  lights  i'  the  heaven  o'er  ua  ; 
A  murky  darkness  on  either  side, 

And  kindred  darkness  all  before  us  ! 

Now,  drawn  nearer  the  shelving  rim, 

Weird-like  shadows  suddenly  rise  ; 
Shapes  of  mist  and  phantoms  dim 

Baffle  the  gazer's  straining  eyes. 

Then,  by  the  trick  of  our  own  swift  motion, 

Straight,  tall  giants,  an  army  vast, 
Rank  by  rank,  like  the  waves  of  ocean, 

On  the  shore  inarch  stilly  past. 

How  solemn !  the  river  a  trailing  pall, 

Which  takes,  but  never  again  gives  back  ; 
And  moonless  and  starless  the  heaven's  arch'd  wall, 

Responding  an  equal  black  ! 

O,  tireless  waters  !  like  Life's  quick  dream, 

Onward  and  onward  ever  hurrying  — 
Like  death  in  this  midnight  hour  you  seem, 

Life  in  your  chill  drops  greedily  burying ! 

Unlike  time  you  begin  and  end, 

Unlike  life  you  've  a  pathway  steady, 
Unlike  earth's  are  your  numberless  graves 

Ever  undug,  yet  ever  ready. 

The  change  from  this  style  to  that  of  the  first  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  is  so  great  thaw 
it  seems  as  though  some  connecting  links  must  be  found  in  his  newspaper  writing  of  the 
time.  Yet  this  is  doubtful.  The  first  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  he  says,  was  printed 
4  after  many  MS.  doings  and  undoings,'  and  possibly  all  the  transition  stages  were  lost  in 


WALT   WHITMAN  687 

this  repeated  revision.  The  section  of  '  First  Drafts  and  Rejected  Lines  and  Passages ' 
given  in  the  Notes  and  Fragments  does  not  show  this  transition,  but  is  entirely  in  the  style 
of  Leaves  of  Grass  itself.  All  that  we  know  of  the  development  of  Whitman's  peculiar 
style  is  what  he  tells  us  in  one  brief  sentence :  '  I  had  great  trouble  in  leaving  out  the 
stock  "  poetical  "  touches,  but  succeeded  at  last.' 

The  first  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  had  practically  no  sale.  Some  copies  were  sent  out 
for  review,  which  received  little  attention,  and  some  were  given  away.  Only  one  copy,  so 
far  as  we  know,  won  a  real  response,  and  that  was  the  one  sent  to  Emerson.  His  letter 
to  Whitman  must  be  quoted  in  full :  — 

'  I  am  not  blind  to  the  worth  of  the  wonderful  gift  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  I  find  it  the 
most  extraordinary  piece  of  wit  and  wisdom  that  America  has  yet  contributed.  I  am 
very  happy  in  reading  it,  as  great  power  makes  us  happy.  It  meets  the  demand  I  am 
always  making  of  what  seems  the  sterile  and  stingy  Nature,  as  if  too  much  handiwork  or 
too  much  lymph  in  the  temperament  were  making  our  western  wits  fat  and  mean.  I 
give  you  joy  of  your  free  and  brave  thought.  I  have  great  joy  in  it.  I  find  incomparable 
things  said  incomparably  well,  as  they  must  be.  I  find  the  courage  of  treatment  which 
so  delights  us,  and  which  large  perception  only  can  inspire. 

'  I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career,  which  yet  must  have  had  a  long  fore- 
ground somewhere  for  such  a  start.  I  rubbed  my  eyes  a  little  to  see  if  this  sunbeam  were 
no  illusion;  but  the  solid  sense  of  the  book  is  a  sober  certainty.  It  has  the  best  merits, 
namely  of  fortifying  and  encouraging. 

'  I  did  not  know  until  I,  last  night,  saw  the  book  advertised  in  a  newspaper,  that  1  could 
trust  the  name  as  real  and  available  for  a  post-office.  I  wish  to  see  my  benefactor,  and 
have  felt  much  like  striking  my  tasks  and  visiting  New  York  to  pay  you  my  respects.' 

Whitman  published  this  letter,  together  with  his  own  long  reply  to  it,  in  the  second  edition 
of  Leaves  of  Grass,  which  appeared  in  1856.  On  the  back  of  this  edition  was  printed,  over 
Emerson's  name,  '  I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career.'  All  this  was  at  least 
in  somewhat  doubtful  taste,  but  Emerson  was  above  resenting  it  or  retracting  anything 
he  had  said,  though  naturally  in  a  private  letter,  acknowledging  the  gift  of  a  book  from 
its  author,  he  perhaps  expressed  himself  somewhat  otherwise  than  he  would  have  done 
in  writing  for  public  print.  In  1856  he  wrote  to  Carlyle, '  One  book  last  summer  came  out 
in  New  York,  a  non-descript  monster  which  yet  had  terrible  eyes  and  buffalo  strength, 
and  was  indisputably  American.'  (See  the  whole  letter  in  the  Carlyle- Emerson  Corre- 
spondence, volume  ii,  page  283.)  He  visited  Whitman  in  New  York,  as  he  had  spoken  of 
doing,  and  friendly  relations  were  kept  up  between  the  two  till  the  end  of  Emerson's 
life.  In  1856  Thoreau  also  visited  Whitman,  and  wrote  of  him  soon  after:  'That  Walt 
Whitman  ...  is  the  most  interesting  fact  to  me  at  present.  I  have  just  read  his  second 
edition  (which  he  gave  me),  and  it  has  done  me  more  good  than  any  reading  for  a  long 
time.  .  .  .  There  are  two  or  three  pieces  in  the  book  which  are  disagreeable,  to  say  the 

least;  simply  sensual On  the  whole  it  sounds  to  me  very  brave  and  American, 

after  whatever  deductions.  I  do  not  believe  that  all  the  sermons,  so  called,  that  have  been 
preached  in  this  land,  put  together,  are  equal  to  it  for  preaching.  We  ought  to  rejoice 
greatly  in  him.  .  .  .  Though  rude  and  sometimes  ineffectual,  it  is  a  great  primitive  poem, 
an  alarum  or  trumpet-note  ringing  through  the  American  camp.  .  .  .  Since  I  have 
seen  him,  I  find  that  I  am  not  disturbed  by  any  brag  or  egotism  in  his  book.  He  may 
turn  out  the  least  of  a  braggart  of  all,  having  a  better  right  to  be  confident.  He  is  a  great 
fellow.' 

The  personal  impression  Whitman  made  upon  all  who  ever  saw  him  seems  to  have  been 
such  as  to  counteract  any  previous  notions  they  may  have  had  of  his  work  as  being  either 
'  egotistic'  or  '  sensual.'  Howells,  not  a  judge  prejudiced  in  his  favor,  met  him  in  New 
York  in  1860,  and  speaks  of  '  the  spiritual  purity  which  I  felt  in  him,  no  less  than  the 
dignity.'  Howells  had  previously  conceived  him  as  'the  apostle  of  the  rough,  the 
uncouth.'  Now  he  found  him  to  be  'the  gentlest  person;  his  barbaric  yawp,  translated 
into  terms  of  social  encounter,  was  an  address  of  singular  quiet,  delivered  in  a  voice  of 
winning  and  endearing  friendliness.' 


688  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

There  are  in  Whitman's  work  passages  which,  though  Thoreau's  word  '  sensual '  is  by 
no  means  the  right  one  to  describe  them,  are  anything  but  fit  reading  for  young  ladies' 
seminaries.  Such  passages  he  has  in  common  with  nearly  all  the  greatest  writers.  But 
naturally  at  their  first  appearance  they  aroused  bitter  opposition  to  him,  aud  from 
time  to  time  this  opposition  took  serious  practical  form.  When  the  third  edition  of  Leaves 
of  Grass  was  being  printed  at  Boston  in  1860,  Emerson  tried  to  persuade  Whitman  to 
omit  these  parts  of  his  work.  Whitman  owns  that '  each  point  of  Emerson's  statement  was 
unanswerable,'  but  his  own  '  unmistakable  conviction  '  that  he  must  leave  his  work  com- 
plete, as  he  understood  completeness,  was  unshaken. 

The  1856  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  contained  more  than  twice  as  many  poems  as  the 
edition  of  1855.  The  edition  of  1860  was  still  further  augmented,  especially  by  the  im- 
portant collection  of  poems  on  men's  friendship  entitled  Calamus.  Neither  of  these  edi- 
tions, however,  had  much  sale,  and  the  firm  which  published  the  Boston  edition  failed  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war. 

Whitman's  younger  brother,  George,  enlisted  in  the  Union  army,  and  served  through- 
out the  war,  rising  to  the  rank  of  Lieutenant-Colonel.  He  was  in  most  of  the  important 
battles  in  Virginia.  In  1862  he  was  wounded  at  the  first  battle  of  Fredericksburg.  The 
wound  was  thought  to  be  serious  (though  it  did  not  prove  so),  and  Whitman  at  an  hour's 
notice  started  for  the  army.  He  spent  a  considerable  part  of  that  winter  with  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac,  and  began  the  attendance  on  wounded  soldiers  which  he  did  not  give  up 
until  the  last  hospitals  at  Washington  were  closed. 

These  were  the  central  years  of  Whitman's  life.  He  gave  them  almost  wholly  to 
his  work  for  the  soldiers,  living  as  simply  and  cheaply  as  he  could,  and  working  in  the 
hospitals  almost  daily  till  the  end  of  the  war.  He  assisted  constantly  in  dressing  the  sol- 
diers' wounds,  but  he  did  far  more  by  ministering  to  their  wants  in  many  other  ways,  and 
most  of  all  by  the  health  and  strength  and  courage  of  his  own  personality.  '  A  surgeon  who 
throughout  the  war  had  charge  of  one  of  the  largest  army  hospitals  in  Washington,'  says 
Dr.  Bucke,  in  his  Life  of  Whitman,  '  has  told  the  present  writer  that  (without  personal 
acquaintance  or  any  other  than  professional  interest),  he  watched  for  many  mouths  Walt 
Whitman's  ministerings  to  the  sick  and  wounded,  and  was  satisfied  that  he  saved  many 
lives.'  There  are  few  records,  even  in  those  years,  of  such  simple  and  unselfish  devotion 
as  can  be  found  in  Whitman's  Specimen  Days,  and  in  his  unpremeditated  letters,  which 
have  now  been  collected  under  the  title  The  Wound-Dresser.  At  least  one  passage  must 
be  quoted  from  an  eye-witness,  Mr.  John  Swiuton,  telling  of  his  hospital  visits  :  '  I  first 
heard  of  him  among  the  sufferers  on  the  Peninsula  after  a  battle  there.  Subsequently  I 
saw  him,  time  and  again,  in  the  Washington  hospitals,  or  wending  his  way  there  with 
basket  or  haversack  on  his  arm,  and  the  strength  of  beneficence  suffusing  his  face.  His 
devotion  surpassed  the  devotion  of  woman.  It  would  take  a  volume  to  tell  of  his  kind- 
ness, tenderness,  and  thoughtfulness. 

'  Never  shall  I  forget  one  night  when  I  accompanied  him  on  his  rounds  through  a  hos- 
pital, filled  with  those  wounded  young  Americans  whose  heroism  he  has  sung  in  deathless 
numbers.  There  were  three  rows  of  cots,  and  each  cot  bore  its  man.  When  he  appeared, 
in  passing  along,  there  was  a  smile  of  affection  and  welcome  on  every  face,  however  wan, 
and  his  presence  seemed  to  light  up  the  place  as  it  might  be  lit  by  the  presence  of  the  Son 
of  Love.  From  cot  to  cot  they  called  him,  often  in  tremulous  tones  or  in  whispers  ;  they 
embraced  him,  they  touched  his  hand,  they  gazed  at  him.  To  one  he  gave  a  few  words  of 
cheer,  for  another  he  wrote  a  letter  home,  to  others  he  gave  an  orange,  a  few  comfits,  a 
cigar,  a  pipe  and  tobacco,  a  sheet  of  paper  or  a  postage  stamp,  all  of  which  and  many 
other  things  were  in  his  capacious  haversack.  From  another  he  would  receive  a  dying 
message  for  mother,  wife,  or  sweetheart ;  for  another  he  would  promise  to  go  on  an 
errand  ;  to  another,  some  special  friend,  very  low,  he  would  give  a  manly  farewell  kiss. 
He  did  the  things  for  them  which  no  nurse  or  doctor  could  do,  and  he  seemed  to  leave  a 
benediction  at  every  cot  as  he  passed  along.  The  lights  had  gleamed  for  hours  in  the  hos- 
pital that  night  before  he  left  it,  and  as  he  took  his  way  towards  the  door,  you  could  hear 
the  voice  of  many  a  stricken  hero  calling,  "  Walt,  Walt,  Walt,  come  again  !  come  again  ! '" 


WALT   WHITMAN  689 


Drum  Taps,  Whitman's  poems  of  the  war,  was  published  in  1865,  and  the  Sequel  to 
Drum  Taps,  containing  his  memorial  poems  on  Lincoln,  and  a  few  more  war  poems,  late*- 
in  the  year.  It  is  surprising  that  these  attracted  so  little  attention  as  they  did.  Yet  we 
must  remember  that  it  has  always  taken  at  least  a  generation  for  the  general  public  to 
accept  any  original  form  of  rhythmic  expression,  especially  a  form  so  different  from  ac- 
cepted standards,  and  apparently  so  uncouth,  as  Whitman's.  Of  the  substance  of  the 
poems,  their  vividness  and  truth,  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak  here.  But  it  may  be  noted  in 
passing,  that,  while  there  is  more  of  the  war  in  his  work  than  in  that  of  any  other  poet, 
there  is  nowhere  any  touch  of  bitterness  or  even  of  hostility. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  war  Whitman  obtained  a  position  as  clerk  in  the  Department  of 
the  Interior.  Not  long  afterward  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  James  Harlan,  came  across 
Whitman's  copy  of  Leaves  of  Grass  (the  1860  edition)  which  he  was  revising  for  republi- 
cation,  and  at  once  discharged  Whitman  as  '  the  author  of  an  indecent  book.'  Whitman 
soon  obtained  an  equally  good  position  in  the  office  of  the  Attorney-General,  but  the  inci- 
dent called  out  a  famous  defence  of  Whitman  and  arraignment  of  Harlan,  in  W.  D. 
O'Connor's  pamphlet  The  Good  Gray  Poet.  This  defence  and  arraignment  are  so  exag- 
gerated in  tone  that  they  have  probably  done  Whitman's  reputation  more  harm  than 
good,  and  have  made  people  feel  that  anything  written  by  a  disciple  of  his  must  be  taken 
with  very  large  allowances.  Yet  the  pamphlet  is  admirable  at  least  for  its  intense  loyalty, 
and  for  its  title,  which  was  a  creation  of  genius.  Whitman  has  been  called  ever  since,  and 
deservedly,  '  The  Good  Gray  Poet.' 

The  new  and  revised  edition  (the  fourth)  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  with  Drum  Taps  added, 
was  published  in  1867.  In  1871  was  published  the  fifth  edition,  with  '  Passage  to  India ' 
and  other  important  additions.  In  1872  Whitman  was  asked  to  give  the  Commencement 
poem  at  Dartmouth  College,  and  he  delivered  '  As  a  strong  bird  on  pinions  free  '  (now 
'  Thou  mother  with  thy  equal  brood').  In  '  Passage  to  India '  and  in  the  later  poems  that 
group  themselves  with  it,  we  have  Whitman's  work  under  a  somewhat  new  aspect.  From 
the  beginning  he  had  said, '  I  am  the  poet  of  the  Body  and  I  am  the  poet  of  the  Soul,'  and 
had  insisted  always  on  the  unity  of  the  two  and  on  their  equal  claims.  But  both  by  tem- 
perament and  by  fixed  intention  he  had  expressed  primarily  the  material  side  of  things 
and  of  man  (as  he  said,  the  side  most  neglected  by  other  poets),  glorying  in  the  triumphs 
of  modern  industrialism  and  in  the  joys  of  physical  health.  Now  (see  the  passages  quoted 
in  notes  on  pages  546  and  590,  and  the  whole  of  his  own  note  on  '  Passage  to  India  '  in 
the  Complete  Prose  Works,  pages  272-274,  as  well  as  the  poem  itself  and  those  that  fol- 
low), he  insists  most  on  the  other  aspect  of  the  dual  unity,  on  the  spirit,  that  '  laughs  at 
what  you  call  dissolution,'  and  knows  it  has  the  best  of  time  and  space.  The  changes 
which  he  made  in  the  brief  poem  «  Assurances  '  (page  553)  from  one  edition  to  another, 
until  it  found  its  final  form  as  given  in  the  1871  edition  with  '  Passage  to  India,'  are 
typical  of  this  development. 

Whitman  was  one  of  the  healthiest  of  men.  Those  who  have  described  his  work  in  the 
hospitals  say  that  health  and  strength  seemed  to  radiate  from  his  presence.  All  his  life 
he  had  lived  a  great  deal  in  the  open  air,  and  in  the  hospital  years  he  depended  on  his 
long  walks  about  Washington  as  his  chief  delight  and  relief.  But  by  1864  his  health  be- 
gan to  be  broken  down.  He  had  the  first  illness  of  his  life,  called  at  first  '  hospital  ma- 
laria,' in  the  hot  summer  of  that  year.  Dr.  Platt,  in  his  life  of  Whitman,  says  also  that 
through  a  scratch  in  his  hand  he  was  infected  with  septic  poisoning  from  a  wound  he  was 
helping  to  dress.  This  seemed  to  have  only  a  temporary  effect,  but  he  was  never  entirely 
well  afterward.  In  January,  1873,  he  had  a  paralytic  stroke,  which  for  a  while  disabled 
his  left  side  completely.  After  a  time  he  recovered  somewhat,  but  could  never  move 
freely.  For  the  first  two  years  he  suffered  severely,  and  he  was  an  invalid  for  the  nineteen 
years  that  followed.  His  work  at  Washington  was  of  course  ended,  and  he  had  no  source 
of  income  but  his  books,  which  hardly  brought  him  anything. 

During  these  years  he  lived  at  Camden,  N.  J.,  the  home  of  George  Whitman.  Almost 
in  poverty,  until  1881,  when  the  sale  of  his  works  began  to  bring  him  a  small  income, 
—  which  enabled  him  to  live  with  some  slight  degree  of  comfort  in  a  home  of  his  own,  — 


690  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

and  in  constant  weakness  and  much  of  the  time  helplessness,  he  underwent  a  test  such  as 
few  men  have  been  subjected  to,  and  one  which  was  particularly  severe  for  him,  the  lover 
of  all  physical  joys  and  especially  of  free  movement  ill  the  open  air.  He  met  this  test 
with  complete  triumph.  All  who  saw  him  at  Camden  —  and  his  home  became  to  some 
degree  a  goal  of  pilgrimage,  especially  in  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  —  bear  witness 
to  the  sweetness  and  strength  of  the  character  that  revealed  itself  in  him. 

The  so-called  '  Centennial  Edition  '  of  Leaves  of  Grass  was  issued  in  1876,  with  a  second 
volume,  composed  partly  of  prose  and  partly  of  verse.  By  1879  Whitman  had  partially 
recovered  from  his  paralysis,  and  was  able  to  take  a  journey  through  the  Western  States 
in  that  year,  and  in  the  following  year  to  Canada.  In  1881  the  seventh  edition  of  Leaves 
of  Grass  was  published  by  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.  of  Boston,  but  six  months  after  its 
publication,  when  some  two  thousand  copies  had  been  sold,  the  firm  was  threatened  with 
prosecution  by  the  Massachusetts  District  Attorney,  and  declined  to  continue  the  sale  of 
the  book.  It  was  immediately  after  published  at  Philadelphia.  In  1888  was  added  the 
collection  called  November  Boughs,  in  1891  were  published  Good-bye  My  Fancy  and  the 
tenth  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  including  these  last  two  additions.  Whitman's  health  had 
been  steadily  declining  again  since  1885 ;  he  suffered  a  second  shock  of  paralysis  in  1888, 
but  lived  on,  still  cheerful  and  mentally  active,  and  happy  in  a  few  devoted  friends,  until 
1892,  when  he  died,  March  26.  The  small  collection,  Old  Age  Echoes,  was  added  to  his 
Leaves  of  Grass  in  the  1897  edition,  Calamus  (letters  to  his  friend  Peter  Doyle)  was  pub- 
lished in  1897,  The  Wound  Dresser  in  1898,  An  American  Primer  and  the  Diary  in  Canada 
in  1904. 

The  question  whether  Walt  Whitman's  work  is  properly  to  be  called  poetry  at  all  or 
not  still  exists  only  in  a  few  academic  circles.  It  has  always  been  largely  a  qiiestion  of 
academic  definitions.  And  while  we  must  have  some  definiteness  of  conception,  in  order 
that  our  ideas  may  not  become  entirely  vague  and  our  words  meaningless,  it  would  be 
well  in  this  case  to  imitate  Whitman's  own  modesty  when  he  says :  '  Let  me  not  dare,  here 
or  anywhere,  for  my  own  purposes,  or  any  purposes,  to  attempt  the  definition  of  Poetry, 
nor  answer  the  question  what  it  is.  Like  Religion,  Love,  Nature,  while  those  terms  are 
indispensable,  and  we  all  give  a  sufficiently  accurate  meaning  to  them,  in  my  opinion  no 
definition  that  has  ever  been  made  sufficiently  encloses  the  name  Poetry.'  It  may  be  added 
that  one  of  the  chief  functions  of  any  strongly  original  poet  —  or  thinker  —  is  to  compel 
us  to  enlarge  our  definitions. 

But  even  without  departing  greatly  from  the  traditional  conceptions  of  poetry,  and 
certainly  without  abandoning  the  idea  that  material  for  poetry,  however  noble  or  beauti- 
ful, does  not  truly  become  poetry  until  it  has  been  put  into  rhythmic  form,  we  are  now 
beginning  frankly  to  accept  Whitman's  work  as  poetry.  We  no  longer  need  the  excellent 
authority  of  John  Addington  Symonds,  a  critic  competent  above  most  others  and  espe- 
cially devoted  to  beauty  of  form  in  verse,  to  tell  us  that  Whitman's  verse  is  wonderfully 
rhythmical,  and  that  his  rhythms  are  truly  and  often  delicately  fitted  to  what  he  has  to 
express.  It  is  only  needful  really  to  read  Whitman,  a  thing  which  is  often  at  first  diffi- 
cult to  do  and  which  people  in  general  have  not  even  yet  learned  to  do  —  to  read  him  in 
the  mass  —  and  above  all  to  read  him  aloud,  which  is  the  final  test  of  poetry  —  in  order 
to  feel  the  strength  and  fitness  of  his  rhythms,  and  to  realize  that  they  are  not  the 
rhythms  of  prose,  nor  of  that  bastard  form  called  poetic  prose,  but  are  distinctly  metrical 
rhythms,  that  is,  the  rhythms  of  verse.  For  the  most  part,  they  hold  among  verse- 
rhythms  somewhat  the  same  place  as  the  recitative  and  the  chant  (names  which  he  often 
gives  to  his  poems)  hold  in  music.  He  has  also,  when  he  chooses,  the  lyric  note.  The 
distinction  between  his  recitative  and  his  lyric,  when  he  uses  them  together,  as  in '  Out 
of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking,'  or  '  When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd,'  is  just 
the  same  and  just  as  clearly  marked  as  that  between  regular  lyrics  and  regular  blank 
verse. 

It  has  taken  people  so  long,  however,  to  settle  for  themselves,  consciously  or  uncoa. 
sciously,  this  preliminary  question  of  whether  Whitman's  work  was  poetry  at  all  or  not. 
that  they  have  only  just  begun  to  appreciate  his  power  and  to  give  him  his  true  rank. 


SIDNEY   LANIER  691 


Professor  Trent,  in  his  recent  History  of  American  Literature  (1903),  calls  him '  too  large 
a  man  and  poet  for  adequate  comprehension  at  present.'  Moreover,  Americans  have  been 
somewhat  alienated  from  Whitman  by  the  attitude  of  the  best  foreign  critics,  who  have 
found  in  him  the  one  and  only  poet  truly  characteristic  of  America.  Not  really  having 
taken  the  trouble  to  know  Whitman,  but  having  conceived  of  him  and  his  work  as  some-; 
thing  rough,  r  jwdyish,  uncultured  and  altogether  materialistic  and  sensual,  Americans 
were  naturally  offended  that  he,  rather  than  men  like  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  Emerson, 
should  be  taken  as  typical  of  America.  We  felt  that  all  the  chief  American  poets  (except 
Poe,  the  only  one  whose  work  could  have  been  written  elsewhere  than  in  America)  were 
typical;  and  that  the  breadth  of  culture  in  such  men  as  Longfellow  and  Lowell  made 
them  only  the  more  completely  typical.  We  naturally  sought  in  the  typical  American 
poet  an  expression  of  our  whole  life  and  character,  including  (as  Whitman  himself  has 
said  somewhere)  our  inheritance  of  all  the  best  from  past  ages  and  foreign  lands;  while 
the  foreign  critic,  as  naturally,  sought  in  him  the  expression  of  only  that  part  of  our  life 
which  is  entirely  new  and  strange  —  and  if  uncouth  and  rude,  so  much  the  better.  We 
have  now  come  to  know  Whitman  more  truly;  to  know  that  he  was  anything  but  the 
rowdy  and  materialist  of  our  first  conceptions ;  to  know  that  while  he  did  not  lack  culture 
in  the  narrower  sense  (having  read  and  thoroughly  digested  Emerson,  having  understood 
Carlyle  and  in  his  own  thought  refuted  and  gone  beyond  him,  having  won  some  genuine 
knowledge  of  Fichte's  thought  and  Hegel's,  if  not  directly  of  Plato's,  and  having  nourished 
himself  on  the  few  greatest  writers,  f^hakspere,  the  Bible,  and  Homer  —  even  though  in 
translation,  some  genuine  knowledge  of  which  is  better  than  our  usual  pretence  at  know- 
ledge of  the  original)  he  also  had  that  broader  and  better  first-hand  culture  which  comes 
from  true  human  relations  with  many  living  men  and  women,  forming  out  of  them  a 
character  which  stood  some  of  the  hardest  tests  of  life.  We  have  also  become  more  ready 
to  admit  that  those  material  aspects  of  our  life  which  primarily,  though  by  110  means 
exclusively,  he  tried  to  express,  are  in  their  crudeness  and  power  truly  characteristic 
of  America.  And  now,  knowing  him  better,  we  see  that  he  has  expressed  not  only  some 
material  aspects,  but  also  some  essential  ideals  of  America,  as  no  other  poet  has:  among 
them,  our  sense  of  freedom  and  independence  (his  work  is  the  logical  outcome  of 
Emerson's  address  on  'The  American  Scholar'),  o;ir  conception  of  real  democratic 
equality,  our  intense  individualism  yet  sense  of  union  oae  with  another  in  a  great  whole. 

SIDNEY   LANIER 

SIDNEY  LANIER  was  born  at  Macon,  Ga.,  February  3,  1842.  He  came  of  a  family  of 
musicians,  the  earliest  known  ancestor  having  been  attached  to  the  court  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, and  his  son  and  grandson  having  been  directors  of  music  under  Charles  I  and 
Charles  II.  The  grandson  was  one  of  the  incorporators  and  the  first  Marshal  of  the 
Society  of  Musicians  under  Charles  II,  and  there  were  four  others  of  the  name  of  Lanier 
among  the  incorporators.  Thomas  Lanier  came  to  America  in  1716,  and  settled  in  Vir- 
ginia. Lanier's  father  was  a  lawyer,  living  at  Macon,  Ga.,  and  his  mother  was  a  Virgin- 
ian of  Scotch  descent,  of  a  family  distinguished  in  politics  and  also  skilled  in  music. 

Sidney  Lanier  had  from  his  childhood  a  strong  ambition,  and  we  may  even  say  genius, 
for  music.  As  a  boy  he  seemed  able  to  learn  any  instrument  without  instruction,  and  could 
play  the  flute,  violin,  organ,  piano,  and  guitar  before  he  could  fairly  read.  His  greatest 
passion  was  for  the  violin,  but  his  father  persuaded  him  to  abandon  it.  His  sensitive 
nature  was  hardly  able  to  bear  the  exaltation  produced  in  him  by  its  notes.  In  deference 
to  his  father's  wishes,  he  devoted  himself  chiefly  to  the  flute. 

When  he  was  fourteen  years  old,  he  entered  Oglethorpe  College  (or  '  University,'  as  it 
called  itself),  in  the  sophomore  class.  After  losing  a  year  by  outside  work,  he  graduated  at 
the  age  of  eighteen,  sharing  the  highest  honors  for  scholarship  with  one  of  his  classmates, 
and  was  immediately  appointed  tutor  in  the  college.  This  was  in  1860.  In  1861  he  gave  up 
his  position  to  volunteer  as  a  private  in  the  Confederate  army.  He  was  in  the  battles  of 


692  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

Seven  Piiies,  Malvern  Hill,  and  others.  The  following  year  his  younger  brother,  Clifford, 
joined  him,  and  both  served  as  privates  (though  promotion  was  offered  to  each  at  differ- 
ent times,  and  to  Sidney  Lanier  three  times),  in  order  not  to  be  separated  from  each 
other.  They  were  transferred  to  the  Signal  Service  in  1862,  and  in  1863  their  company 
was  mounted  and  served  in  Virginia  and  North  Carolina.  Finally  they  were  appointed 
signal  officers  on  blockade-runners,  and  thus  necessarily  separated.  Sidney  Lanier  was 
captured,  with  his  vessel,  and  imprisoned  for  five  months  at  Point  Lookout.  In  February, 
1865,  he  was  released,  and  returned  home  to  Georgia  on  foot,  with  his  flute,  from  which 
he  had  never  been  separated.  His  strength  was  seriously  impaired,  and  though  he  recov- 
ered from  a  dangerous  illness  of  six  weeks,  the  beginning  of  consumption,  from  which  his 
mother  had  just  died,  was  already  upon  him.  The  rest  of  his  life  was  a  struggle  against 
the  disease. 

He  was  still  only  twenty-three  years  old,  and  had  not  found  his  vocation  in  life,  though 
strong  musical  and  literary  ambitions  were  already  awake  in  him.  But  he  was  led  to 
think  that  music  was  not  a  serious  career,  not  worth  devoting  his  life  to.  While  working 
as  clerk  in  a  hotel,  he  took  up  and  completed  in  three  weeks  of  April,  1867,  his  novel, 
Tiger  Lilies  (begun  at  Burwell's  Bay  in  1863,  and  continued  in  1865),  and  in  May  took 
the  story  to  New  York  to  be  published.  It  is  a  picture  of  the  war,  hastily  drawn, 
and  of  course  somewhat  crude.  It  expresses  strongly,  however,  the  horror  of  war  which 
had  constantly  grown  in  him  during  the  progress  of  that  struggle  which  he  would  not 
abandon  until  it  was  ended.  He  describes  war  as  '  that  strange,  terrible  flower  of  which 
the  most  wonderful  specimen  yet  produced  was  grown  by  two  wealthy  planters  of  North 
America.'  '  It  is  supposed  by  some,'  he  goes  on  (the  passage  is  quoted  in  Dr.  Ward's 
Memorial'), '  that  the  seed  of  this  American  specimen  (now  dead)  yet  remains  in  the  land  ; 
but  as  for  this  author  (who,  with  many  friends,  suffered  from  the  unhealthy  odors  of  the 
plant),  he  could  find  it  in  his  heart  to  wish  fervently  that  this  seed,  if  there  be  verily  any, 
might  perish  in  the  germ,  utterly  out  of  sight  and  life  and  memory,  and  out  of  the  remote 
hope  of  resurrection,  forever  and  ever,  no  matter  in  whose  granary  they  are  cherished  ! ' 
The  novel  was  published,  but  had  little  success.  He  returned  to  the  South,  and  taught 
school  for  a  year.  In  1867  he  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  Day,  of  Macon.  For  five  years 
following,  he  studied  and  practised  law  with  his  father. 

During  this  time  he  had  written  but  little  in  verse,  yet  some  of  that  little  was  of  exqui- 
site quality.  The  first  poems  we  have  are  those  of  1865, '  The  Dying  Words  of  Stonewall 
Jackson '  and  '  The  Tournament,'  the  second  of  which  he  used  with  some  alterations  in 
his  '  Psalm  of  the  West,'  eleven  years  later.  The  lyric  <  Night  and  Day  '  belongs  to  1866> 
and  in  1868  the '  Jacquerie  '  was  planned  and  partly  written.  In  1868  he  wrote  also  a  lyric, 
'  Life  and  Song,'  the  last  two  lines  of  which  have  been  often  quoted  in  speaking  of  his 
life  and  of  the  poetry  which  was  as  yet  hardly  begun  :  — 

His  song  was  only  living  aloud, 
His  work,  a  singing  with  his  hand. 

There  was  little  written  in  the  following  years,  until  1874,  except  three  dialect  poems  of 
Georgia  life. 

He  could  not  remain  devoted  to  the  law,  however.  He  felt  more  and  more  that  his  life 
was  to  be  brief,  and  that  he  must  do  something  in  art,  which  is  lasting. 

'  Were  it  not  for  some  considerations  which  make  such  a  proposition  seem  absurd  in 
the  highest  degree,'  he  wrote  to  his  wife  early  in  1873,  '  I  would  think  that  I  am  shortly 
to  die,  and  that  my  spirit  hath  been  singing  its  swan-song  before  dissolution.  All  day 
my  soul  hath  been  cutting  swiftly  into  the  great  space  of  the  subtle,  unspeakable  deep, 
driven  by  wind  after  wind  of  heavenly  melody.'  He  determined  to  devote  himself  for  what 
was  left  of  his  life  to  music  and  literature.  He  tried  New  York,  but  finally  settled  in 
Baltimore,  in  December  of  this  year,  W73,  having  obtained  an  engagement  there  as  first 
flute  in  the  Peabody  Symphony  Orchestra.  He  wrote  to  his  father,  who  had  protested 
against  his  purpose  as  unwise  :  '  My  dear  father,  think  how,  for  twenty  years,  through 
poverty,  through  pain,  through  weariness,  through  sickness,  through  the  uncongenial 


SIDNEY   LANIER  693 

atmosphere  of  a  farcical  college  and  of  a  bare  army  and  then  of  an  exacting  business  life, 
through  all  the  discouragement  of  being  wholly  unacquainted  with  literary  people  and 
literary  ways,  —  I  say,  think  how,  in  spite  of  all  these  depressing  circumstances,  and  of  a 
thousand  more  which  I  could  enumerate,  these  two  figures  of  music  and  of  poetry  have 
steadily  kept  in  my  heart  so  that  I  could  not  banish  them.  Does  it  not  seem  to  you  as  to  me, 
that  I  begin  to  have  the  right  to  enroll  myself  among  the  devotees  of  these  two  sublime 
arts,  after  having  followed  them  so  long  and  so  humbly,  and  through  so  much  bitterness  ?  ' 
His  father  felt  the  force  of  this  appeal,  and  generously  helped  Lanier,  so  far  as  he  could, 
to  carry  out  his  ambitions. 

At  Baltimore  he  found  what  he  had  craved  for,  the  opportunity  to  hear  good  music, 
and  access  to  extensive  libraries.   In  the  comparative  freedom  and  exhilaration  of  this 
new 
them 
ment, 

first  poem  which  attracted  atttention,  '  Corn.'  This  poem  opens  with  stanzas  almost  as 
beautiful  as  anything  in  Lanier's  work,  describing  the  full  richness  of  summer  in  the 
South.  As  a  whole,  however,  it  is  not  entirely  successful.  The  symphonic  structure  is  not 
sustained  to  the  end,  and  much  of  the  last  part  of  the  poem  is  given  to  a  description  of 
the  effect  on  Southern  farmers  of  cotton  speculation,  and  especially  of  borrowing  money 
at  ruinous  rates  to  plant  cotton  instead  of  corn.  That  subject  was  quite  in  place  in  Lanier's 
dialect  poems,  '  Jones's  Private  Argyment,'  and  '  Thar  's  more  in  the  man  than  thar  is  in 
the  land,'  but  here,  in  a  poem  of  the  quality  of  '  Corn,'  it  jars,  and  in  both  substance  and 
expression  is  quite  out  of  harmony  with  the  rest  of  the  poem.  '  Corn,'  though  it  is 
interesting  historically  as  having  won  for  Lanier  his  first  recognition  when  it  appeared 
in  Lippincott's  Magazine  for  February,  1875,  and  also  for  its  attempt  to  express  fitly 
in  poetry  the  beauty  of  waving  fields  of  our  chief  American  grain,  must,  in  final  criti- 
cal judgment,  be  accounted  a  failure.  This  is  the  less  to  be  regretted  because  Lanier 
immediately  after  succeeded,  with  '  The  Symphony,'  in  the  chief  things  which  he  had 
failed  to  do  in  'Corn.'  In  'The  Symphony,'  published  only  four  months  later  in  the 
same  magazine,  he  created  a  poem  of  real  harmonic  and  symphonic  structure  through- 
out, and  of  far  greater  musical  beauty  than  he  had  even  attempted  in  '  Corn  ; '  and  he 
achieved  the  amazing  tour  de  force  of  making  real  poetry  out  of  the  money  question.  A 
little  later,  in  a  brief  lyric,  '  The  Waving  of  the  Corn,'  he  expresses  the  full  beauty  of  the 
cornfield. 

'  The  Symphony  '  won  him  the  friendship  of  Bayard  Taylor,  —  a  friendship  which  grew 
as  the  two  men  came  to  know  each  other  better,  and  which  is  recorded  in  the  letters  that 
passed  between  them.  His  letters  to  another  firm  friend,  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock,  are  also 
preserved,  and  are  of  great  interest.  He  was  devoted  to  a  serious  study  of  his  two  arts, 
and  especially  of  the  relations  between  them.  Often  he  was  compelled  to  interrupt  his 
work  either  to  go  in  search  of  health  to  Florida  or  Pennsylvania  or  the  mountains  of 
North  Carolina,  or  to  do  hack  writing  for  a  mere  living.  But  he  persisted,  with  help 
and  encouragement  from  his  father  and  brother,  from  his  friends,  and  most  of  all  from 
his  wife.  To  her  he  wrote:  '  "  Que  mon  nom  soit  fletri,  que  la  France  soit  libre!  "  quoth 
Danton  ;  which  is  to  say,  interpreted  by  my  environment :  Let  my  name  perish  —  the 
poetry  is  good  poetry  and  the  music  is  good  music,  and  beauty  dieth  not,  and  the  heart 
that  needs  it  will  find  it.'  He  was  chosen  in  1876,  at  the  instance  of  Bayard  Taylor,  to 
write  the  words  of  the  Centennial  Cantata,  for  which  the  music  was  composed  by  Dudley 
Buck.  In  this  year  he  wrote  also  the  beautiful  '  Evening  Song,'  possibly  his  finest  lyric; 
the  poem  '  Clover,'  which  ranks  between  '  Corn  '  and  '  The  Symphony,'  and  has  something 
of  the  qualities  of  both  ;  '  The  Waving  of  the  Corn,'  just  spoken  of;  and  our  finest  Cen- 
tennial poem  (not  forgetting  Lowell's  and  Whitman's),  the  '  Psalm  of  the  West.' 

Meanwhile  he  was  lecturing  for  schools  and  for  private  classes,  writing  descriptive  ar- 
ticles in  prose  for  Lippincott's  Magazine,  making  a  book  on  Florida  for  a  railroad  com- 
pany (published  by  the  Lippincotts  in  1876),  and  cheerfully  doing  whatever  he  could  to 
earn  himself  a  living  and  win  some  leisure  for  original  writing.  In  1877  was  published  the 


694  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

first  collection  of  his  Poems,  and  this  year  was  the  one  most  productive  of  new  pieces, 
though  of  brief  ones.  Such  a  condensed  bit  of  lyric  as  •  The  Stirrup-Cup,'  however,  is  worth 
many  a  long  poem.  To  this  year  belong  also  the  '  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee  '  (one  of  his 
most  popular  lyrics,  though  perhaps  not  ultimately  to  be  counted  among  the  few  of  his 
very  best),  two  of  his  best  brief  nature  poems, '  Tampa  Robins  '  and  '  From  the  Flats  '  (the 
last  is  bound  to  haunt  forever  all  true  lovers  of  the  hills), <  The  Mocking-Bird,' '  The  Bee,' 
'  Florida  Sunday,'  and  the  poems  '  To  Wagner '  and  '  To  Beethoven.' 

His  two  best  ballads,  '  The  Revenge  of  Hamish  '  and  '  How  Love  looked  for  Hell,'  be- 
long to  1878-79.  The  first  seems  to  me  unsurpassed  in  narrative  technique.  Objectivity 
can  no  farther  go.  It  is  a  masterpiece  of  absolute  detachment,  yet  of  wonderful  vivid- 
ness. The  second  is  also  remarkable  for  the  way  in  which  it  clothes  abstractions  with 
life,  and  makes  vivid  the  vague  idea  that  where  Love  comes,  there  Hell  cannot  be.  These, 
each  unique  in  its  kind,  and,  belonging  to  the  same  year,  his  chief  masterpiece  in  still 
another  kind  which  is  peculiarly  his  own,  being  a  new  creation,  —  'The  Marshes  of 
Glynn,'  — show  the  many  possibilities  of  that  talent  which  was  not  to  reach  its  full 
development. 

Bayard  Taylor  died  in  December,  1878,  and  Lanier  wrote  the  poem  '  To  Bayard  Tay- 
lor,' with  its  beautiful  picture  of  the  Elysium  of  the  poets,  its  touches  of  Elizabethan 
phrasing,  and,  toward  the  end,  its  strong,  condensed  expression  of  the  hard  conditions  and 
the  struggle  which  were  bearing  heavily  upon  Lanier  himself,  but  from  which  he  was  soon 
to  escape  into  that  open  sun-lit  land  of  the  last  two  stanzas. 

He  had  work  still  to  do,  however.  Early  in  1879  he  was  appointed  Lecturer  on  English 
Literature  in  the  Johns  Hopkins  University.  This  brought  him  the  happy  certainty  of  a 
fixed  though  small  income.  For  his  courses  of  1879-80  and  1880-81  he  prepared  the 
lectures  which,  in  revised  form,  now  constitute  his  two  most  important  prose  volumes, 
The  Science  of  English  Verse  and  The  English  Norel  and  its  Development.  He  made  an 
engagement  with  the  Scribners  to  complete  a  series  of  books  for  boys,  of  which  four  were 
published,  two  after  his  death:  The  Boy's  Froissart  (1878),  The  Boy's  King  Arthur  (1880), 
The  Boy's  Mabinogion  (1881),  and  The  Boy's  Percy  (1882).  In  the  winter  of  1880-81  he  was 
barely  able  to  get  through  with  twelve  lectures  at  the  University.  The  poem  '  Sunrise  ' 
was  written  with  a  fever  temperature  of  104,  when,  says  Mrs.  Lanier,  '  the  hand  which 
first  pencilled  its  lines  had  not  strength  to  carry  nourishment  to  the  lips.'  A  last  attempt 
to  prolong  his  life  was  made  by  trying  tent  life  in  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina, 
but  it  was  unsuccessful,  and  he  died  September  7,  1881. 

Though  younger  by  almost  a  generation  than  our  chief  elder  poets,  Lanier  seems  to  be 
taking  his  rank  almost  without  question  among  them.  He  did  not  complete  his  work.  To 
his  poet  friend,  Paul  H.  Hayne,  he  wrote:  'How  I  long  to  sing  a  thousand  songs  that 
oppress  me,  unsung,  —  is  inexpressible.  Yet  the  mere  work  that  brings  bread  gives  me 
no  time.'  When  he  died,  his  talent  was  growing.  Unlike  Poe,  if  he  had  lived  he  would 
probably  have  given  us  greater  poems  than  he  did.  It  is  therefore  hard  to  say  what 
would  have  proved  really  characteristic  of  him  had  he  completed  any  large  mass  of  work. 
As  it  is,  he  has  given  us  some  beautiful  and  haunting  lyrics,  sometimes  with  touches  of 
strange  fancies  like  those  in  '  Night  and  Day  '  and  the  '  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master  ; ' 
he  has  written  two  of  our  finest  ballads,  both  unique  in  kind;  in  the  '  Psalm  of  the  West ' 
he  has  written  a  poem  of  America  that  for  range  and  beauty  and  historical  completeness, 
and  for  the  sweep  of  the  whole  from  its  superb  opening  up  to  just  near  the  close,  where 
it  fails  a  little,  deserves  to  stand  beside  or  even  above  Lowell's  '  Commemoration  Ode  ' 
and  Whitman's  'Thou  mother  with  thy  equal  brood.'  And  finally,  there  is  one  thing 
which,  even  in  the  small  amount  of  his  work,  we  may  call  distinctively  characteristic,  — 
the  way  of  writing  found  in  two  poems  so  different  in  substance  as  '  The  Symphony  '  and 
'  The  Marshes  of  Glynn.'  '  Whatever  turn  I  have  for  art,'  he  wrote  to  Paul  H.  Hayne, 
'  is  purely  musical,  poetry  being  with  me  a  mere  tangent  into  which  I  shoot  sometimes. 
.  .  .  The  very  deepest  of  my  life  has  been  filled  with  music,  which  I  have  studied  and 
cultivated  far  more  than  poetry.'  Something  of  this  music-passion  has  woven  itself  into 
iis  poetry.  His  theory  that  English  verse  has  for  its  essential  basis  not  accent,  but  strict 


SIDNEY   LANIER  695 


musical  quantity,  is  almost  certainly  a  mistaken  one.  But  the  book  he  wrote  to  prove 
this  mistaken  theory  is  by  far  the  most  suggestive  and  inspiring  that  has  ever  dealt  with 
the  technique  of  verse.  And  in  his  own  work  he  has  written  poetry  more  rich  in  music 
than  we  had  before.  He  has  learned  all  that  there  was  to  be  learned  from  his  predeces- 
sors, among  them  Swinburne,  and  then  he  has  found  for  himself  new  melodies,  and  has 
taught  something  of  them  to  the  poets  of  a  younger  generation,  —  notably  Bliss  Carman 
»ud  Richard  Hovey. 


INDEXES 


INDEX   OF   POETS 


Poems 

Biographical  Sketch 
List  of  References  . 


1 

055 
635 


EMERSON 

Poems 58 

Biographical  Sketch 663 

List  of  References  ...  .  638 


LONGFELLOW 

Poems 102 

Biographical  Sketch 667 

List  of  References 641 

LOWELL 

Poema 410 

Biographical  Sketch 679 

List  of  References 646 


Poems 

Biographical  Sketch 
List  of  References  . 


355 

(!77 
645 


LANIER 

Poems 611 

Biographical  Sketch 691 

List  of  References 650 


POE 

Poems 36 

Biographical  Sketch 658 

List  of  References 636 

WHITMAN 

Poems 532 

Biographical  Sketch 686 

List  of  References .  647 


Poems 259 

Biographical  Sketch 674 

List  of  References 643 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


A  batter'd,  wreck'd  old  man,  601. 
A  beautiful  and  happy  girl,  265. 
Aboard  at  a  ship's  helm,  586. 
A  carol  closing  sixty-nine  — a  resume  — a  repeti- 
tion, 607. 
A  child  said  What  is  the  grass  ?  fetching  it  to  me 

with  full  hands,  533. 
A  Christian  !  going,  gone !  272. 
A  cloud,  like  that  the  old-time  Hebrew  saw,  349. 
A  crazy  bookcase,  placed  before,  387. 
A  dull  uncertain  brain,  93. 
A  fleet  with  flags  arrayed,  254. 
Afoot  and  light-hearted  I  take  to  the  open  road, 

547. 
After  an  interval,  reading,  here  in  the  midnight, 

604. 

After  surmounting  three-score  and  ten,  608. 
A  gold  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem,  344. 
Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl !  the  spirit  flown 

forever !  43. 

Ah,  Clemence  !  when  I  saw  thee  last,  358. 
A  hundred  years  !  they  're  quickly  fled,  467. 
A  line  in  long  array  where  they  wind  betwixt 

green  islands,  572. 
All  are  architects  of  Fate,  149. 
All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds,  302. 
Alone  in  Rome.   Why,  Rome  is  lonely  too,  60. 
Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where,  469. 
Along  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of  gold,  330. 
Am  I  a  king,  that  I  should  call  my  own,  255. 
A  mighty  Hand,  from  an  exhaustless  Urn,  33. 
A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel,  156. 
Among  the  thousands  who  with  hail  and  cheer, 

353. 

And  as  the  light  divides  the  dark,  93. 
And  Ellen,  when  the  gray-beard  years,  59. 
And  how  could  you  dream  of  meeting  ?  528. 
And  I  behold  once  more,  58. 
And  now  gentlemen,  589. 
Andrew  Rykman  's  dead  and  gone,  307. 
And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June?  453. 
And  who  art  thou?  said  I  to  the  soft-falling 

shower,  607. 
4  A  new  commandment,'  said  the  smiling  Muse, 

95. 

Annie  and  Rhoda,  sisters  twain.  339. 
Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky,  72. 
A  noiseless  patient  spider,  5901 
An  old  man  bending  I  come  among  new  faces, 

575. 

An  old  man  in  a  lodge  within  a  park,  245. 
Apollo  looked  up,  bearing  footsteps  approaching, 

441. 


Arin'd  year  —  year  of  the  struggle,  571. 

A  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood,  73. 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er,  252. 

As  a  strong  bird  on  pinions  free,  599. 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird,  429. 

A  sight  in  camp  in  the  daybreak  gray  and  dim, 

574. 
As  I  lay  with  my  head  in  your  lap  camerado., 

586. 

As  life  runs  on,  the  road  grows  strange,  524. 
As  one  who  long  hath  fled  with  panting  breath, 

253. 

As  sings  the  pine-tree  in  the  wind,  95. 
As  sinks  the  sun  behind  yon  alien  hills,  508. 
As  sunbeams  stream  through  liberal  space,  67. 
As  the  birds  come  in  the  spring,  257. 
As  the  Greek's  signal  flame,  by  antique  records 

told,  607. 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods,  574. 
A  subtle  chain  of  countless  rings,  87. 
At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay,  235. 
At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June,  43. 
At  morn  — at  noon  —  at  twilight  dim,  45. 
Atom  from  atom  yawns  as  far,  91. 
A  train  of  gay  and  clouded  days,  91. 
At  the  last,  tenderly,  595. 
A  vision  as  of  crowded  streets,  245. 
A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea,  212. 
Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down!  355. 
Ay,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven's  delicious  breath! 

14. 

Bathed  in  war's  perfume  —  delicate  flag!  581. 

Beat!  beat!  drums!  —  blow!  bugles!  blow!  572. 

Because  I  feel  that,  in  the  Heavens  above,  55. 

Because  I  was  content  with  these  poor  fields,  86. 

Behold  the  rocky  wall,  376. 

Beloved!  amid  the  earnest  woes,  46. 

Beloved,  in  the  noisy  city  here,  412. 

Beneath  the  low-hung  night  cloud,  340. 

Beneath  the  moonlight  and  the  snow,  338. 

Be  of  good  cheer,  brave  spirit ;  steadfastly,  91. 

Beside  a  stricken  field  I  stood,  306. 

Beside  that  milestone  where  the  level  sun,  346. 

Beside  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay,  113. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight,  232. 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man,  291. 

Blooms  the  laurel  which  belongs,  100. 

Boon  Nature  yields  each  day  a  brag  which  we  now 

first  behold,  94. 

Bowing  thyself  in  dust  before  a  Book,  458. 
Bring  me  my  broken  harp,  he  said,  396. 
Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master!  151, 


700 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Bulkeley,  Hunt,  Willard,  Hosmer,  Meriam,  Flint, 

83. 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee,  63. 
But  Nature  whistled  with  all  her  winds,  91. 
But  never  yet  the  man  was  found,  90. 
By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely,  48. 
By  his  evening  fire  the  artist,  100. 
By  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame,  572. 
By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood,  63. 

Champion  of  those  who  groan  beneath,  260. 

Com  the  day-dawn  into  lines,  94. 

Columbus  stands  in  the  night  alone,  and,  passing 

grave,  617. 

Come,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I,  385. 
Come  forth!  my  catbird  calls  to  me,  497. 
Come,  I  will  make  the  continent  indissoluble,  561. 
Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree,  22. 
Come  my  tan-faced  children,  569. 
Come,  said  my  soul,  602. 

Come,  spread  your  wings,  as  I  spread  mine,  363. 
Come  to  me,  O  ye  children!  150. 
Come  up  from  the  fields,  father,  here 's  a  letter 

from  our  Pete,  573. 
Conductor  Bradley,  always  may  his  name,  340. 

Daily  the  bending  skies  solicit  man,  90. 
Darest  thou  now  O  soul,  595. 
Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days,  87. 
Day  by  day  for  her  darl  ings  to  her  much  she  added 

more,  91. 
Dear  common   flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the 

way,  417. 

Dear  friends,  who  read  the  world  aright,  283. 
Dear  Sir,  —  Your  letter  come  to  han',  486. 
Dear  Wendell,  why  need  count  the  years,  523. 
Death,  thou  'rt  a  cordial  old  and  rare,  621. 
Delicate  cluster!  flag  of  teeming  life!  589. 
Did  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me?  579. 
Down  'mid  the  tangled  roots  of  things,  496. 
Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain 

peak,  455. 

Ef  I  a  song  or  two  could  make,  484. 
Entranced  I  saw  a  vision  in  the  cloud,  518. 
Kre,  in  the  northern  gale,  11. 
Kre  pales  in  Heaven  the  morning  star,  523. 
Ere  we  Gomera  cleared,  a  coward  cried,  618. 
Ever  the  poet  from  the  land,  94. 

Facing  west  from  California's  shores,  560. 

Facts  respecting  an  old  arm-chair,  372. 

Fair  isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers,  46. 

Father  of  Mercies.  Heavenly  Friend,  379. 

Flag  of  stars,  thick-sprinkled  bunting,  580. 

Flag  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory,  379. 

Flood-tide  below  me!  I  see  you  face  to  face!  553. 

Flood-tide  of  the  river,  flow  on,  553. 

For  Fancy's  gift,  93. 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  our  severing  ways,  351. 

For  Nature,  true  and  like  in  every  place,  90. 

For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain,  410. 

For  thought,  and  not  praise.  93. 

For  weeks  the  clouds  bad  raked  the  hills,  332. 


For  what  need  I  of  book  or  priest,  94. 

Freedom  all  winged  expands,  99. 

From  all  the  rest  I  single  out  you,  having  a  mes- 
sage for  you,  564. 

From  east  and  west  across  the  horizon's  edge,  608. 

From  fall  to  spring,  the  russet  acorn,  73. 

From  Paumanok  starting  I  fly  like  a  bird,  571. 

From  purest  wells  of  English  undeflled,  353. 

From  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  beneath 
the  tent-like  span,  297. 

From  this  fair  home  behold  ou  either  side,  404. 

Full  of  life  now,  compact,  visible,  564. 

Gaily  bedight,  57. 

Give  all  to  love,  85. 

Give  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his  beams 

full-dazzling,  577. 
Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and 

woven,  622. 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still,  472. 
God  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age,  415. 
God's  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where,  283. 
Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone,  263. 
Good-bye  my  Fancy !  609. 
Good-bye,  proud  world!  I  'm  going  home,  58. 
Go,  speed  the  stars  of  Thought,  93. 
Go  thou  to  thy  learned  task,  94. 
Grandmother's  mother :  her  age,  I  guess,  3£d. 
Great  men  in  the  Senate  sate,  99. 
Great  soul,  thou  sittest  with  me  in  my  room,  41 1. 
Great  Truths  are  portions  of  the  Soul  of  man,  411. 
Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man,  433. 

Half  of  my  life  is  gone,  and  1  have  let.  113. 

Hark,  some  wild  trumpeter,  some  strange  musi- 
cian, 596.  , 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys? 
374. 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun?  73. 

Hare  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
369. 

Heap  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard!  280. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells,  53. 

He  came  to  Florence  long  ago,  465. 

He  cometh  not  a  king  to  reign,  325. 

He  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth,  241. 

He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician!  193. 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me,  41. 

Here  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  and  guarled  pines,  20. 

Here,  'Forgive  me,  Apollo,'  I  cried,  'while  J 
pour,'  450. 

Here  is  the  place;  right  over  the  hill,  300. 

Here  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died,  2,Y_>. 

Here  once  my  step  was  quickened,  466. 

Here's  Cooper,  who's  written  six  volumes  to 
show,  447. 

Her  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys,  304. 

Her  hands  are  cold ;  her  face  is  white,  377. 

Her  passions  the  shy  violet,  95. 

Hers  all  that  earth  could  promise  or  bestow,  523. 

He  spoke  of  Burns :  men  rude  and  rough,  413. 

He  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  threshold;  wide, 
414. 

Him  strong  Genius  urged  to  roam,  29. 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


701 


His  birthday.  —  Nay,  we  need  not  speak,  374. 

His  instant  thought  a  poet  spoke,  94. 

His  laurels  fresh  from  song  and  lay,  347. 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day,  239. 

How  cold  are  thy  baths,  Apollo!  256. 

How  dare  one  say  it?  609. 

How  long  will  this  harp  which  you  once  loved  to 

hear,  383. 
How  many  have  gone  ?  was  the  question  of  old, 

398. 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet,  242. 
Ho!  workers  of  the  old  time  styled,  273. 
How  solemn  !  sweeping  this  dense  black  tide,  686. 
How  strange  are  the  freaks  of  memory!  498. 
How  strange  the  sculptures  that    adorn  these 

towers!  240. 

Hush'd  be  the  camps  to-day,  585. 
Hushed  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill,  458. 

I  am  not  poor,  but  I  am  proud,  58. 

I  am  not  wiser  for  my  age,  95. 

I  am  owner  of  the  sphere,  73. 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  Body  and  I  am  the  poet  of 

the  Soul,  537. 
I  ask  not  for  those  thoughts,  that  sudden  leap, 

411. 

I  believe  that  the  copies  of  verses  I  've  spun,  394. 
I  celebrate  myself,  and  sing  myself,  533. 
I  do  not  count  the  hours  I  spend,  90. 
I  dream'd  in  a  dream  I  saw  a  city  invincible,  563. 
I  du  believe  in  Freedom's  cause,  435. 
I  dwelt  alone,  51. 

I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom,  240. 
If  he  be  a  nobler  lover,  take  him!  528. 
If  I  could  put  my  woods  in  song,  100. 
I  framed  his  tongue  to  music,  93. 
If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays,  88. 
If  thought  unlock  her  mysteries,  95. 
I  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky,  14. 
I  had  a  little  daughter,  429. 
I  have  a  fancy :  how  shall  I  bring  it,  528. 
I  have  read,  in  some  old,  marvellous  tale,  106. 
I  hear  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear, 

560. 

I  heard  or  seemed  to  hear  the  chiding  Sea,  89. 
I  heard  that  you  asked  for  something  to  prove 

this  puzzle  the  New  World,  604. 
I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night,  105. 
I  heard  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call,  290. 
I  hear  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I  sought 

to  destroy  institutions,  562. 
I  heed  not  that  my  earthly  lot,  41. 
I  know  not  what  the  future  hath,  314. 
I  left  my  dreary  page  and  sallied  forth,  91. 
I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze,  241. 
I  like  a  church ;  I  like  a  cowl,  64. 
Ill  fits  the  abstemious  Muse  a  crown  to  weave,  61. 
I  love  the  old  melodious  lays,  280. 
I  love  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice,  356. 
I  love  to  start  out  arter  night 's  begun,  473. 
1  marvel  how  mine  eye,  ranging  the  Night,  619. 
Immortal  Love,  forever  full,  325. 
I  mourn  no  more  my  vanished  years,  301. 
J  myself,  myself  !  behold  me!  194. 


In  a  far-away  northern  county  in  the  placid  pas- 
toral region,  603. 

In  an  age  of  fops  and  toys,  99. 

In  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon,  156. 

In  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again,  285. 

In  clouds  descending,  in  midnight  sleep,  586. 

I  need  no  assurances,  I  am  a  man  who  is  pre- 
occupied of  his  own  soul,  553. 

I  need  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his  song,  496. 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell,  41. 

In  many  forms  we  try,  96. 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes,  61. 

In  midnight  sleep  of  many  a  face  of  anguish,  580. 

In  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain, 
629. 

In  o'er-strict  calyx  lingering,  619. 

Inquiring,  tireless,  seeking  what  is  yet  unfound, 
560. 

In  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges,  118. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  man  a  poet  dwells,  96. 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys,  46. 

In  the  heart  of  the  Hills  of  Life,  I  know,  612. 

In  the  long,  sleepless  watches  of  the  night,  257. 

In  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the  land  of 
the  Pilgrims,  213. 

In  the  old  days  —  a  custom  laid  aside,  323. 

In  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad 
meadow-lands,  116. 

Into  the  darkness  and  hush  of  night,  257. 

In  vain  we  call  old  notions  fudge,  524. 

In  youth's  spring  it  was  my  lot,  659. 

I  pace  the  sounding  sea-beach  and  behold,  246. 

I  reached  the  middle  of  the  mount,  665. 

I  remember  — why, yes!  God  bless  me!  and  was 
it  so  long  ago  ?  375. 

I  said  I  stood  upon  thy  grave,  291. 

I  saw  him  once  before,  358. 

1  saw  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing,  562. 

I  saw  old  General  at  bay,  573. 

I  saw  thee  once  —  once  only  —  years  ago,  52. 

I  saw  thee  on  thy  bridal  day,  39. 

I  saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet,  428. 

I  see  all  human  wits,  95. 

I  see  amid  the  fields  of  Ayr,  256. 

I  see  before  me  now  a  traveling  army  halting,  572. 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air,  120. 

I  sit  in  the  early  twilight,  31. 

I  spose  you  wonder  ware  I  be ;  I  can't  tell,  fer  the 
soul  o'  me,  436. 

Is  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair?  357. 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight,  119. 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John,  478. 

It  fell  in  the  ancient  periods,  64. 

I  thought  our  love  at  full,  but  I  did  err,  430. 

It  is  done!  312. 

It  is  not  what  we  say  or  sing,  384. 

It  is  time  to  be  old,  101. 

It  mounts  athwart  the  windy  hill,  499. 

I  treasure  in  secret  some  long,  fine  hair,  462. 

It  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the  river- 
side, 355. 

It  was  fifty  years  ago,  211. 

It  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  au 
timmal  rain,  278. 


702 


INDEX   OF    FIRST   LINES 


It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago,  56. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus,  107. 

It  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land,  235. 

It  was  three  slim  does  and  a  ten-tined  buck  in  the 

bracken  lay,  623. 

I  understand  the  large  hearts  of  heroes,  541. 
I  wait  and  watch;  before  my  eyes,  305. 
I  wandered  lonely  where  the  pine-trees  made, 

347. 
I  was  asking  for  something  specific  and  perfect 

for  my  city,  565. 

I  would  the  gift  I  offer  here,  282. 
1  write  my  name  as  one,  350.  • 
1  wrote  some  lines  once  on  a  time,  356. 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his  dying 

day,  302. 
Joy,  shipmate,  joy!  596. 

Kind  solace  in  a  dying  hour!  36. 

Lay  down  the  axe  ;  fling  by  the  spade,  24. 

Let  greener  lands  and  bluer  skies,  359. 

Let  me  go  where'er  I  will,  96. 

Lift  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's 

rusted  shield,  275. 
Ligeia!  Ligeia!  40. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear,  233. 
Little  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few,  371. 
Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown, 

61. 

Long  I  followed  happy  guides,  84. 
Long,  too  long  America,  578. 
Look  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands,  616. 
Lookout!  Lookout,  boys!  Clear  the  track!  405. 
Lord  of  all  being!  throned  afar,  377. 
Lo!  't  is  a  gala  night,  47. 
Love,  91. 
Low  and  mournful  be  the  strain,  99. 

Maiden!  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes,  112. 

Maud  Muller  on  a  summer's  day,  289. 

Me  imperturbe,  standing  at  ease  in  Nature,  560. 

Men  say  the  sullen  instrument,  498. 

Men!  whose  boast  it  is  that  ye,  414. 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed,  23. 

Mine  and  yours,  84. 

My  aunt!  my  dear  unmarried  aunt!  357. 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there,  461. 

My  Dawn  ?   my  Dawn  ?  How  if  it  never  break  ? 

618. 

My  day  began  not  till  the  twilight  fell,  524. 
My  heart,  I  cannot  still  it,  527. 
My  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had  been,  275. 
My  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shotildst  die, 

411. 
Myself  and  mine  gymnastic  ever,  567. 

Nay,  blame  me  not;  I  might  have  spared,  380. 
Nay,  do  not  dream,  designer  dark,  609. 
'Neath  blue-bell  or  streamer,  39. 
Next  drive  we  o'er  the  slimy-weeded  sea,  618. 
New  England's  poet,  rich  in  love  as  years,  523. 
Night  on  the  prairies.  564. 


No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they,  345. 

No  fate,  save  by  the  victim's  fault,  is  low,  91. 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong,  287. 

Not  as  all  other  women  are,  410. 

Not  in  the  solitude,  17. 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone,  369. 

Not  the  pilot  has  charged  himself,  687. 

Not  to  exclude  or  demarcate,  or  pick  out  evils, 
609. 

Not  unto  us  who  did  but  seek,  313. 

Not  without  envy  Wealth  at  times  must  look,  346. 

Now  speaks  mine  other  heart  with  cheerier  seem- 
ing, 618. 

Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again,  103. 

O  Caesar,  we  who  are  about  to  die,  248. 

O  Captain!  iny  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 

581. 

O'er  all  the  hill-tops,  149. 
O'er  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretched  hands, 

292. 

O  even-handed  Nature!  we  confess,  382. 
O  fairest  of  the  rural  maids!  9. 
Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time,  296. 
O  Friends!  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod,  314. 
Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town,  210. 
Of  that  blithe  throat  of  thine  from  arctic  bleak 

and  blank,  606. 

Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door,  240. 
Oh!  could  I  hope  the  wise  and  pure  in  heart,  7. 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy!  3G6. 
Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare,  31. 
Oh  what  is  Heaven  but  the  fellowship,  92. 
O  lady  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful  and 

rare,  259. 

O  little  feet!  that  such  long  years,  239. 
O  lonely  bay  of  Trinity,  301. 
O  Love  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share,  377. 
O  Love!  O  Life!  Our  faith  and  sight,  326. 
O  magnet-South!  O  glistening  perfumed  South ! 

my  South!  565. 

O  moonlight  deep  and  tender,  412. 
O  Mother  Earth!  upon  thy  lap,  260. 
O  mother  of  a  mighty  race,  21. 
Onaway!  Awake,  beloved!  184. 
On  bravely  through  the  sunshine  and  the  show- 
ers! 92. 

Once  git  a  smell  o'  musk  into  a  draw,  480. 
Once  it  smiled  a  silent  dell,  44. 
Once  more,  O  all-adjusting  Death!  .352. 
Once  more  on  yonder  laurelled  height,  304. 
Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands,  20. 
Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 

weak  and  weary,  48. 
One  broad,  white  sail  in  Spezzia's  treacherous 

bay,  364. 

One  of  your  old-world  stories,  Uncle  John,  24. 
One's-self  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person,  587. 
On  prince  or  bride  110  diamond  stone,  95. 
On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell,  103. 
On  the  beach  at  night,  590. 
On  the  isle  of  Penikese,  342. 
On  woodlands  ruddy  with  autumn,  30. 
Opening  one  day  a  book  of  mine,  528. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


O  poet  rare  and  old!  285. 

Or,  haply,  how  if  this  contrarious  West,  618. 

O  sight  of  pity,  shame  and  dole!  588. 

O  star  of  France,  596. 

O  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty!  241. 

()  tenderly  the  haughty  day,  88. 

Others  may  praise  what  they  like,  581. 

O  Trade!  O  Trade!  would  thou  wert  dead!  612. 

Our  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried,  17. 

Our  fathers'  God  !  from  out  whose  hand,  346. 

Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains!  262. 

Our  Friend,  our  Brother,  and  our  Lord,  327. 

Our  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all,  326. 

Our  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower,  412. 

Our  ship  lay  tumbling  in  an  angry  sea,  489. 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking,  557. 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham,  621. 

Out  of  the  rolling  ocean  the  crowd  came  a  drop 

gently  to  me,  578. 

Over  his  head  were  the  maple  buds,  94. 
Over  his  keys  the  musing  organist,  453. 
Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies,  453. 
Over  sea,  hither  from  Niphon,  567. 
Over  the  carnage  rose  prophetic  a  voice,  578. 
Over  the  monstrous  shambling  sea,  628. 
Over  the  Western  sea  hither  from  Niphon  come, 

567. 

O,  well  for  the  fortunate  soul,  100. 
O  what  are  heroes,  prophets,  men,  96. 
O  ye  dead  Poets,  who  are  living  still,  252. 

Pale  genius  roves  alone,  93. 

Phoebus,  sitting  one  day  in  a  laurel-tree's  shade, 

430. 

Pipes  of  the  misty  moorlands,  299. 
Ploughman,    whose    gnarly    hand    yet    kindly 

wheeled,  617. 

Poet  and  friend  of  poets,  if  thy  glass,  352. 
Poet!  I  come  to  touch  thy  lance  with  mine,  253. 
Poets  to  come!  orators,   singers,    musicians  to 

come!  560. 
Poor  and  inadequate  the  shadow-play,  347. 

Quicksand    years    that    whirl  me  I  know    not 
whither,  580. 

Reader  —  gentle  —  if  so  be,  388. 
Recorders  ages  hence,  561. 
Rivermouth  Rocks  are  fair  to  see,  310. 
Romance,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing,  40. 
Roomy  Eternity,  91. 

Saint  Augustine!  well  hast  thou  said,  155. 

Science!  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art!  40. 

Set  not  thy  foot  on  graves,  80. 

She  gathered  at  her  slender  waist,  402. 

She  gave  me  all  that  woman  can,  528. 

She  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion  and 

pride,  378. 

She  paints  with  white  and  red  the  moors,  91. 
Shines  the  last  age,  the  next  with  hope  is  seen,  95. 
Shot  gold,  maroon  and  violet,  dazzling  silver, 

emerald,  fawn,  608. 
Should  you  ask  me,  whence  these  stories?  l.r>8. 


Shun  passion,  fold  the  hands  of  thrift,  92. 

Shut  not  your  doors  to  me  proud  libraries,  579. 

Simple  and  fresh  and  fair  from  winter's  close 
emerging,  607. 

Singing  my  days,  590. 

Six  thankful  weeks,  —  and  let  it  be,  65. 

Slow  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale,  386. 

Small  is  the  theme  of  the  following  Chant,  ">»7. 

Small  the  theme  of  my  chant,  587. 

So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn,  282. 

Solemnly,  mournfully,  121. 

Some  die  too  late  and  some  too  soon,  348. 

Some  of  your  hurts  you  have  cured,  94. 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street,  120. 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust,  99. 

So  when  there  came  a  mighty  cry  of  Land, .'  619. 

Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  north- 
ward far  away,  277. 

Speak!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest!  108. 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou,  15. 

Spirit  that  form'd  this  scene,  605. 

Stars  of  the  summer  night!  111. 

States!  561. 

Statesman,  I  thank  thee!  and,  if  yet  dissent,  303. 

Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest,  255. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road,  337. 

Still  thirteen  years :  't  is  autumn  now,  462. 

Stranger,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which 
needs,  3. 

Stream  of  my  fathers!  sweetly  still,  264. 

Strong,  simple,  silent  are  the  [steadfast]  laws, 
530. 

Summer's  last  sun  nigh  unto  setting  shines,  353. 

Superb  and  sole,  upon  a  plumed  spray,  620. 

Sweetest  of  all  childlike  dreams,  311. 

Take  this  kiss  upon  the  brow!  41. 

Teach  me  your  mood,  O  patient  stars!  91. 

Tears!  tears!  tears!  587. 

Tell  me,  maiden,  dost  thou  use,  59. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers,  104. 

Tell  men  what  they  knew  before,  92. 

Test  of  the  poet  is  knowledge  of  love,  95. 

Thank  Heaven !  the  crisis,  55. 

Thanks  in  old  age  —  thanks  ere  I  go,  608. 

Thanks  to  the  morning  light,  82. 

That  book  is  good,  93. 

That  each  should  in  his  house  abide,  92. 

That 's  a  rather  bold  speech,  my  Lord  Bacon,  529. 

The  Ages  come  and  go,  242. 

The  autumn-time  has  come,  337. 

The  bard  and  mystic  held  me  for  their  own,  92. 

The  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon 

its  Southern  way,  270. 
The  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see,  41. 
The  commonplace  I  sing,  608. 
The  cordage  creaks  and  rattles  in  the  wind,  418. 
The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary,  111. 
The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness,  115. 
The  Dervish  whined  to  Said,  92. 
Thee  for  my  recitative,  604. 
The  elder  folks  shook  hands  at  last,  327. 
The  electric  nerve,  whose  instantaneous  thrill  50. 
The  free  winds  told  him  what  they  knew,  93. 


704 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


The  friends  that  are,  and  friends  that  were,  380. 

The  gale  that  wrecked  you  on  the  sand,  94. 

The  gods  talk  in  the  breath  of  the  woods,  92. 

The  green  grass  is  bowing,  59. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples,  12. 

The  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung,  327. 

The  hound  was  cuffed,  the  hound  was  kicked, 

611. 

The  innocent,  sweet  Day  is  dead,  611. 
The  land,  that,  from  the  rule  of  kings,  352. 
The  lights  are  out,  and  gone  are  all  the  guests, 

243. 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last,  461. 
The  lords  of  life,  the  lords  of  life,  77. 
The  minstrel  of  the  classic  lay,  403. 
The  mountain  and  the  squirrel,  73. 
The  mountains  glitter  in  the  snow,  367. 
The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon,  104. 
The  noble  sire  fallen  on  evil  days,  598. 
The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill,  303. 
The  piping  of  our  slender,  peaceful  reeds,  378. 
The  Play  is  over.  While  the  light,  404. 
The  prairie-grass  dividing,  its  special  odor  breath- 
ing, 563. 

The  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer,  285. 
There    are   some   qualities  —  some    incorporate 

things,  47. 
There  are  truths  you  Americans  need  to  be  told, 

448. 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth,  412. 
There  comes  Emerson  first,  whose  rich  words, 

every  one,  442. 
There  comes  Poe,  with  his  raven,  like  Barnaby 

Rudge,  449. 

There  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods,  102. 
There  is  Bryant,  as  quiet,  as  cool,  and  as  digni- 
fied, 444. 
There  is  Hawthorne,  with  genius  so  shrinking 

and  rare,  446. 
There  is  Lowell,  who 's    striving   Parnassus  to 

climb,  452. 
There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

149. 

There  is  no  great  and  no  small,  73. 
There  is  Whittier,  whose  swelling  and  vehement 

heart,  445. 
There  's  Holmes,  who  is  matchless  among  you  for 

wit,  452. 

There  was  a  child  went  forth  every  day,  532. 
There  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town,  360. 
There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree,  456. 
The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars,  111. 
The  river  hemmed  with  leaning  trees,  341. 
The  robin  laughed  in  the  orange-tree,  620. 
The  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  the  buds  into 

blossoms-  grew,  336. 
The  rounded  world  is  fair  to  see,  77. 
The  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep,  246. 
The  sea  is  the  road  of  the  bold,  94. 
These  are  the  gardens  of  the  Desert,  these,  18. 
The  seed  that  wasteful  autumn  cast,  365. 
These  pearls  of  thought  in  Persian  gulfs  were 

bred,  529. 
The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast,  112. 


The  shadows  round  the  inland  sea,  281. 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober,  51. 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming,  459. 

The  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane,  '281. 

The  South-wind  brings,  77. 

The  Sphinx  is  drowsy,  71. 

The  Star  of  Fame  shines  down  upon  the  river, 

246,  note. 
The  stars  of  Night  contain  the  glittering  Day, 

611. 

The  storm  and  peril  overpast,  348. 
The  subtle  power  in  perfume  found,  351. 
The  sun  athwart  the  cloud  thought  it  no  sin,  91. 
The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright,  266. 
The  sun  set,  but  set  not  his  hope,  92. 
The  sun  that  brief  December  day,  315. 
The  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls,  256. 
The  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes,  5. 
The  wind  is  roistering  out  of  doors,  500. 
The  work  of  the  Lord  by  night,  98. 
The  works  of  human  artifice  soon  tire,  104. 
The  young  Endymion  sleeps  Endymion's  sleep, 

246. 

They  put  their  finger  on  their  lip,  96. 
Thick-sprinkled  bunting!  flag  of  stars!  580. 
Thine  eyes  still  shined  for  me,  though  far,  60. 
Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude,  62. 
This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells  of  good 

old  times,  359. 

This  is  our  place  of  meeting;  opposite,  399. 
This  is  the  Arsenal.    From  floor  to  ceiling,  114. 
This  is  the    forest    primeval.    The    murmuring 

pines  and  the  hemlocks,  121. 
This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign,  368. 
This  is  thy  hour  O  Soul,  thy  free  flight  into  the 

wordless,  606. 
This  is  your  month,  the  month  of  '  perfect  days,' 

402. 

This  shining  moment  is  an  edifice,  91. 
Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew,  16. 
Thou  foolish  Hafiz!    Say,  do  churls,  95. 
Though  loath  to  grieve,  80. 
Though  love  repine,  and  reason  chafe,  95. 
Though  old  the  thought  and  oft  exprest,  499. 
Thou  Mother  with  thy  equal  brood,  598. 
Thou  shouldst  have  sung  the  swan-song  for  the 

choir,  407. 

Thou  that  from  the  heavens  art,  149. 
Thou,  top,  hast  left  us.    While  with  heads  bowed 

low,  408. 

Thou  unrelenting  Past!  15. 
Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love,  45. 
Thou  wast  the  fairest  of  all  man-made  things,  53C 
Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm,  60S 
Thou  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild,  9. 
Thou,  who  wouldst  wear  the  name,  29. 
Thou  wouldst  be  loved?  — then  let  thy  heart,  46. 
Thrash  away,  you  '11  hev  to  rattle,  431. 
Three  Silences  there  are :  the  first  of  speech,  253. 
Thy  love  thou  sentest  oft  to  me,  423. 
Thy  summer  voice,  Musketaquit,  87. 
Thy  trivial  harp  will  never  please,  81. 
'Tfe  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty, 

one  remembers,  389. 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


'T is  midnight:  through  my  troubled  dream,  381. 
'T  is  the  noon  of  the  spring-time,  yet  never  a  bird, 

284. 

To  clothe  the  fiery  thought,  94. 
To  heal  his  heart  of  long-time  pain,  626. 
To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds,  1. 
Too  young  for  love?  404. 
To  range,  deep-wrapt,  along  a  heavenly  height, 

627. 
To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing 

rise  to-day.  'JOT. 

To  those  who  died  for  her  on  land  and  sea,  524. 
To  those  who've  fail'd,  in  aspiration  vast,  607. 
Trees  in  groves,  74. 

True  Brahmin,  in  the  morning  meadows  wet,  94. 
Truth :  So  the  frontlet's  older  legend  ran,  396. 
Try  the  might  the  Muse  affords,  93. 
Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of 

gloom,  118. 
'T  was  a  vision  of  childhood  that  came  with  its 

dawn,  365. 

'T  was  on  the  famous  trotting-ground,  392. 
'Twixt  this  and  dawn,  three  hours  my  soul  will 

smite,  617. 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death,  157. 
Type  cf  the  antique  Rome!  Rich  reliquary,  45. 

I'nnar  the  door,  since  thon  the  Opener  art,  95. 
I'nder  a  spreading  chestnut-tree,  108. 
Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn,  309. 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen,  275. 

Vex  not  the  Muse  with  idle  prayers,  407. 
Vigil  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night,  573. 

Warm  and  still  is  the  summer  night,  251. 

Weak-winged  is  song,  490. 

We  are  what  we  are  made  ;  each  following  day, 

60. 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest,  373. 
We  may  not  climb  the  heavenly  steeps,  325. 
We  praise  not  now  the  poet's  art,  312. 
We  saw  the  slow  tides  go  and  come,  343. 
What  best  I  see  in  thee,  605. 
What  care  I,  so  they  stand  the  same,  86. 
What  fairings  will  ye  that  I  bring?  459. 
What  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond,  324. 
What  heartache  — ne'er  a  hill!  621. 
What  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June?  453. 
What  say  the  Bells  of  San  Bias,  258. 
What  visionary  tints  the  year  puts  on,  424. 
When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the 

broad  earth's  aching  breast,  421. 
When  beechen  buds  begin  io  swell,  2. 


When  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair,  4. 
When  descends  on  the  Atlantic,  116. 
Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought,  212. 
When  I  heard  at  the  close  of  the  day,  562. 
When  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer,  579. 
When  I  peruse  the  conquer'd  fame  of  heroes,  563. 
When  I  remember  them,  those  friends  of  mine. 

246. 

When  I  think  of  my  beloved,  188. 
When  I  was  a  beggarly  boy,  500. 
When  I  was  born,  85. 
When  legislators  keep  the  law,  368. 
When  life  hath  run  its  largest  round,  366. 
When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  blooni'd,  581. 
When  the  full-grown  poet  came,  603. 
When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered,  105. 
When  the  pine  tosses  its  cones,  66. 
When  wise  Minerva  still  was  young,  465. 
Where  are  the  Poets,  unto  whom  belong,  257. 
Where  in  its  old  historic  splendor  stands,  365, 

note. 
Where  is  this  patriarch  you  are  kindly  greeting '.' 

397. 

Whether  is  better,  the  gift  or  the  donor  ?  67. 
Whispers  of  heavenly  death  murmur'd  I  hear,  588. 
White  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep, 

286. 

White  swan  of  cities,  slumbering  in  thy  nest,  253. 
Whither?  Albeit  I  follow  fast,  463. 
Whither,  midst  falling  dew,  3. 
Who  are  you  dusky  woman,  so  ancient  hardly  hu- 
man, 589. 

Who  cometh  over  the  hills,  509. 
Who  gave  thee,  O  Beauty,  76. 
Who  of  all  statesmen  is  his  country's  pride,  362 
Why,  who  makes  much  of  a  miracle  ?  552. 
With  a  glory  of  winter  sunshine,  350. 
With  husky-haughty  lips,  O  Sea!  606. 
With  snow-white  veil  and  garments  as  of  flame, 

241. 

Word  over  all,  beautiful  as  the  sky,  586. 
Words  pass  as  wind,  but  where  great  deeds  were 

done,  512. 
Would  you  hear  of  an  old-time  sea-fight  ?  542. 

Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor,  463. 
Yes,  sometimes  to  the  sorrow-stricken.  92. 
Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things,  314. 
Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night,  286. 
You  bards  of  ages  hence!  when  you  refer  to  me. 

561. 

You  shall  not  be  overbold,  96. 
Youth,  large,  lusty,  loving  — youth  full  of  grace 

force,  fascination,  606. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Aboard  at  a  ship's  helm  (Whitman),  586. 

Abraham  Davenport  (Whittier),  323. 

ASaucpvv  vtnovrtu.  auava  (Emerson ;,  95. 

After  a  Lecture  on  Shelley  (Holmes),  361. 

After  a  Lecture  on  Wordsworth  (Holmes),  363. 

After  an  Interval  (Whitman),  604. 

After  the  Burial  (Lowell),  463. 

After  the  Curfew  (Holmes),  404. 

Agassiz  (Lowell),  501. 

Agassiz,  The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  (Longfellow), 
211. 

Agassiz,  The  Prayer  of  (Whittier),  342. 

M  Aaraaf ,  Song  from  (Poe),  39. 

Aladdin  (Lowell),  500. 

All  Here  (Holmes),  384. 

America  singing,  I  hear  (Whitman),  SCO. 

Among  the  Hills  (Whittier),  330. 

Amy  Wentworth  (Whittier),  304. 

Anacreon,  The  Lyre  of  (Holmes),  403. 

Andrew  Rykman's  Prayer  (Whittier),  'Ml. 

Angels,  Footsteps  of  (Longfellow),  106. 

Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  The  (Whittier),  277. 

Annabel  Lee  (Poe),  56. 

Annie,  For  (Poe),  55. 

Annie  and  Rhoda,  see  The  Sisters  ( Whittier),  339. 

Antiquity  of  Freedom,  The  (Bryant),  20. 

Apology,  The  (Emerson),  62. 

April  (Whittier),  284. 

Arisen  at  Last  (Whittier),  291. 

Arrow  and  the  Song,  The  (Longfellow),  120. 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The  (Longfellow).  114. 

Art  and  Nature  (Longfellow),  104. 

Asa  strong  Bird  on  Pinions  l:ree,  see  Thou  Mother 
with  thy  equal  brood  (Whitman),  598. 

As  I  lay  with  my  head  in  your  lap  camerado 
(Whitman),  586. 

Assurances  (Whitman),  553. 

As  the  Greek's  Signal  Flame  (Whitman),  607. 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods  (Whit- 
man), 574. 

Astrsea  (Whittier),  285. 

At  a  Meeting  of  Friends  (Holmes),  375. 

At  Eventide  (Whittier),  347. 

At  the  Burns  Centennial  (Lowell),  467. 

At  the  Saturday  Club  (Holmes),  399. 

Auf  Wiedersehen  (Lowell),  461. 

Aunt,  My  (Holmes),  357. 

Auspex  (Lowell),  527. 

Autocrat,  Our  (Whittier),  347. 

Autograph,  An  (Whittier),  350. 

Autograph,  For  an  (Lowell),  499. 

Autumn  Walk,  My  (Bryant),  30. 

Autumn  Woods  (Bryant),  11. 

Are  Maria  (Poe),  45. 


Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet,  A  (Longfellow),  304. 

Ballad  of  the  Oysterman,  The  (Holmes),  356. 

Barbara  Frietchie  (Whittier),  309. 

Barclay  of  Ury  (Whittier),  275. 

Barefoot  Boy,  The  (Whittier),  291. 

Bartholdi  Statue,  The  (Whittier),  352. 

Base  of  all  Metaphysics,  The  (Whitman),  589. 

Bathed  in  war's  perfume  (Whitman),  581. 

Battle-Field,  The  (Bryant),  20. 

Bayard  Taylor,  To  (Lanier),  627. 

Beach  at  Night,  On  the  (Whitman),  590. 

Beat !  Beat !  Drums  !  (Whitman),  572. 

Beauty,  Ode  to  (Emerson),  76. 

Beaver  Brook  (Lowell),  458. 

Beethoven,  To  (Lanier),  619. 

Beleaguered  City,  The  (Longfellow),  106. 

Belfry  of  Bruges,  The:  Carillon  (Longfellow),  118 

Bells,  The  (Poe),  53. 

Bells  of  San  Bias,  The  (Longfellow),  258. 

'Beloved,  in  the  noisy  city  here  '  (Lowell),  412. 

Benedicite  (Whittier),'  283. 

Bibliolatres  (Lowell),  458. 

Biglow  Papers,  The:  First  Series  (Lowell),  4;*0. 

Biglow  Papers,  The:  Second  Series  (Lowell),  472. 

Bill  and  Joe  (Holmes),  385. 

Birds  of  Killingworth,  The  (Longfellow),  235. 

Birthday  of  Agassiz,  The  Fiftieth  (Longfellow), 
211. 

Birthday  of  Daniel  Webster  (Holmes),  366. 

Bivouac  on  a  Mountain  Side  (Whitman),  572. 

Bohemian  Hymn,  The  (Emerson),  96. 

Borrowing  (Emerson),  94. 
i    Boston  Hymn  (Emerson),  98. 

Botanist  (Emerson),  94. 
j   Boys,  The  (Holmes),  374. 
!    Brahma  (Emerson),  88. 
i    Breakfast-Table  Series,  Epilogue  to  the  (Holme*), 

387. 

•    Bridge,  The  (Longfellow),  119. 
i    Broadway  Pageant,  A  (Whitman),  567. 
!    Brooklyn  Ferry,  Crossing  (Whitman),  553. 
i   Broomstick  Train,  The  (Holmes),  405. 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caroline 
(Holmes),  378. 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie  (Whittier),  302. 

Bryant  on  his  Birthday  (Whittier),  312. 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday  (Holmes),  382. 

B.  Sawin,  Esq.,  A  Second  Letter  from  (Lowell), 
436. 

Buena  Vista,  The  Angels  of  (Whittier),  277. 

Builders,  The  (Longfellow),  149. 

Building  of  the  Ship,  The  (Longfellow),  151. 

Bunker-Hill    Battle,   Grandmother's    Story    of 
(Holmes),  389. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


707 


Burial  of  the  Minnisink  (Longfellow),  103. 

Burns  (Whittier),  287. 

Burns,  see  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car  (Lowell), 

413. 

Burns,  Robert  (Longfellow),  256. 
Burns  Centennial,  At  the  (Lowell),  467. 
Burns  Centennial  Celebration,  For  the  (Holmes), 

37-1. 

Burns  Club,  For  the  Meeting  of  the  (Holmes),  367. 
Bust  of  General  Grant,  On  a  (Lowell),  530. 
By  the  Bivouac's  Fitful  Flame  (Whitman),  572. 
By  the  Lakeside,  Summer  (Whittier),  286. 

Cable  Hymn,  The  (Whittier),  301. 

California's  shores,  Facing  west  from  (Whitman), 

560. 

Captain  !  my  Captain  !  (Whitman),  581. 
Carillon,  The  Belfry  of  Bruges:  (Longfellow),  118. 
Carol  closing  Sixty-nine,  A  (Whitman),  607. 
Casella  (Emerson),  95. 
Cassandra  Southwick  (Whittier),  267. 
Cavalry  crossing  a  Ford  (Whitman),  572. 
Centennial  Hymn  (Whittier),  346. 
Centennial  Ode,  see  Ode  for  the  Fourth  of  July 

(Lowell),  518. 

Certain  Civilian,  To  a  (Whitman),  579. 
Chambered  Xautilus,  The  (Holmes),  368. 
Changeling,  The  (Lowell),  429. 
Channing  (W.  H.),  Ode  inscribed  to  (Emerson), 

80. 

Charles  Eliot  Norton,  To  (Lowell),  500. 
Chattahoocb.ee,  Song  of  the  (Lanier),  621. 
Chaucer  (Longfellow),  245. 
Children  (Longfellow),  150. 
Children's  Hour,  The  (Longfellow),  232. 
Child's  Reminiscence,  A,  see  Out  of  the  cradle 

endlessly  rocking  (Whitman),  557. 
Christian  Slave,  The  (Whittier),  272. 
Churchyard  at  Tarrytown,  In  the  (Longfellow), 

252. 

City  in  the  Sea,  The  (Foe),  42. 
Clear  Midnight,  A  (Whitman),  606. 
Climacteric  (Emerson),  95. 
Clock  on  the  Stairs,  The  Old  (Longfellow),  120. 
Coliseum,  The  (Poe),  45. 
Columbus  (Lowell),  418. 
Columbus,  Prayer  cf  (Whitman),  601. 
Columbus,  Sonnets  on  (Lanier),  617. 
Come,  said  my  Soul  (Whitman),  602. 
Come  up  from  the  fields,  father  (Whitman),  573. 
Commemoration,    Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard 

(Lowell),  490. 

Commonplace,  The  (Whitman),  608. 
Concord  Bridge,  Ode  read  at  the  One  Hundredth 

Anniversary  of  the  Fight  at  (Lowell),  509. 
Concord  Hymn  (Emerson),  63. 
Concord  Ode  (Emerson),  88. 
Conductor  Bradley  (Whittier),  340. 
Conqueror  Worm,  The  (Poe),  47. 
Contentment  (Holmes),  371. 
Contrast,  A  (Lowell),  423. 
Copyright,  International  (Lowell),  524. 
torn,  The  Waving  of  the  (Lanier),  617. 
Corn  Song,  The  (WhitHer),  280. 


Courtin',  The  (Lowell),  472. 

Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  The  (Longfellow), 

213. 
Cradle  endlessly  rocking,  Out  of  the  (Whitman), 

557. 

Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry  (Whitman),  553. 
Cross  of  Snow,  The  (Longfellow),  257. 
Cumberland,  The  ^ongiellow),  235. 
Curfew  (Longfellow),  121. 
Curfew,  After  the  (Holmes),  404. 

Dandelion,  To  the  (Lowell),  417. 
Daniel  Webster,  Birthday  of  (Holmes),  366. 
Dante  (Longfellow),  118, 240. 
Darest  Thou  now  O  Soul  (Whitman),  595. 
Davenport,  Abraham  (Whittier),  323. 
Daybreak  (Longfellow),  212. 
Day  is  Done,  The  (Longfellow),  115. 
Daylight  and  Moonlight  (Longfellow),  156. 
Days  (Emerson),  87. 
Day's  Ration,  The  (Emerson),  85. 
Deacon's  Masterpiece,  The  (Holmes),  369. 
Dead  House,  The  (Lowell),  466. 
Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell,  The  (Whittier),  324. 
Death,  Hymn  to  (Bryant),  7. 
Death  of  Lincoln,  The  (Bryant),  31. 
Death  of  Queen  Mercedes  (Lowell),  522. 
Death's  Valley  (Whitman),  609. 
Dedication,  Songs  of  Labor  (Whittier),  282. 
Delicate  Cluster  (Whitman),  589. 
Dirge  (Emerson),  quoted,  62  note,  and  665. 
Divina  Commedia  (Longfellow),  240. 
Dorothy  Q.  (Holmes),  386. 
Dream-Land  (Poe),  48. 
Dream  within  a  Dream,  A  (Poe),  41. 
Dying  Words  of  Stonewall  Jackson,  The  (Lanier), 
611. 

Each  and  all  (Emerson),  61. 

Earth-Song  (Emerson),  84. 

E.  C.  S.,  To  (Whittier),  352. 

Eldorado  (Poe),  57. 

Ellen,  Lines  to  (Emerson),  59. 

Ellen,  To  (Emerson),  59. 

Ellen  at  the  South,  To  (Emerson),  59. 

Elmwood,  The  Herons  of  (Longfellow),  251. 

Ember  Picture,  An  (Lowell),  498. 

Enchanter,  The  (Emerson),  96. 

Endymion  (Longfellow),  111. 

Endymion  (Lowell),  524. 

English  Friend,  To  an  (Holmes),  365. 

Entrance  to  a  Wood,  Inscription  for  the  (Bryant), 

3. 

Envoi :  The  Poet  and  his  Songs  (Longfellow),  257. 
Envoi:  To  the  Muse  (Lowell),  463. 
Epilogue  to  the  Breakfast-Table  Series  (Holmes), 

387. 

Eros  (Emerson),  96. 
Eternal  Goodness,  The  (Whittier),  314. 
Ethiopia  saluting  the  Colors  (Whitman),  589. 
Eulalie  —A  Song  (Poe),  51. 
Evangeline  (Longfellow),  121. 
Evening,  see  Summer  by  the  Lakeside  (Whititer), 


7o8 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Evening  Song  (Lanier),  616. 
Evening  Wind,  The  (Bryant),  15. 
Eventide,  At  (Whittier),  347. 
Excelsior  (Emerson),  94. 
Excelsior  (Longfellow),  112. 
Experience  (Emerson),  77. 
Expostulation  (Whittier),  262. 

Fable  (Emerson),  73. 

Fable  for  Critics,  A  (Lowell),  440. 

Facing  west  from  Calif  ornia's  shores  (Whitman), 
560. 

Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids  (Bryant),  9. 

Faith  Poem,  see  Assurances  (Whitman),  553. 

Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave-Mother,  The  (Whit- 
tier), 263. 

Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz,  The  (Longfellow), 
211. 

Finale  of  Christus  (Longfellow),  242. 

First  Dandelion,  The  (Whitman),  607. 

First-Day  Thoughts  (Whittier),  285. 

First  Snow-fall,  The  (Lowell),  459. 

Flag  of  Stars,  thick-sprinkled  bunting  (Whit- 
man), 580. 

Flood  of  Years,  The  (Bryant),  33. 

Follen,  see  Expostulation  (Whittier),  262. 

Foot-Path,  The  (Lowell),  499. 

Footsteps  of  Angels  (Longfellow),  105. 

For  an  Autograph  (Lowell),  499. 

For  Annie  (Poe),  55. 

Forbearance  (Emerson),  73. 

Foreign  Lands,  To  (Whitman),  604. 

Forerunners  (Emerson),  84. 

Forest  Hymn,  A  (Bryant),  12. 

Forgiveness  (Whittier),  275. 

For  the  Burns  Centennial  Celebration  (Holmes), 
374. 

For  the  Meeting  of  the  Burns  Club  (Holmes), 
367. 

1  For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain '  (Low- 
ell), 410. 

For  Whittier's  Seventieth  Birthday  (Holmes), 
394. 

For  you,  O  Democracy  (Whitman),  561. 

Fourth  of  July,  An  Ode  for  the  (Lowell),  513. 

Fragments  on  Nature  and  Life  (Emerson),  90. 

Fragments  on  the  Poet  and  the  Poetic  Gift  (Emer- 
son), 92. 

Franciscus  de  Verulamio  sic  cogitavit  (Lowell), 

Freedom,  Stanzas  on  (Lowell),  414. 
Friendship  (Emerson),  73,  95. 
Friendship,  The  Girdle  of  (Holmes),  402. 
Fringed  Gentian,  To  the  (Bryant),  16. 
From  '  A  Fable  for  Critics '  (Lowell),  440. 
From  Alcuin  (Emerson),  94. 
From  My  Arm-Chair  (Longfellow),  255. 
From  Paumanok  starting  1  fly  like  a  bird  (Whit- 
man), 571. 

From  the  Flats  (Lanier),  621. 
From  the  '  Psalm  of  the  West '  (Lanier),  617. 
From  the  '  Song  of  Myself '  (Whitman),  533. 

F s  S.  O d,  To  (Poe),  46. 

Full  of  life  now  (Whitman),  564. 


Gardener  (Emerson),  94. 

Garrison  (Whittier),  348. 

Garrison,  To  William  Lloyd  (Whittier),  260. 

Garrison  of  Cape  Ami,  The  (Whittier),  297. 

Gaspar  Becerra  (Longfellow),  150. 

General  Grant,  On  a  Bust  of  (Lowell),  530. 

Giotto's  Tower  (Longfellow),  242. 

Girdle  of  Friendship,  The  (Holmes),  402. 

Give  All  to  Love  (Emerson),  85. 

Give  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  (Whitman),  577. 

Goethe,  Written  in  a  Volume  of  (Emerson)  65. 

Good-bye  (Emerson),  58. 

Good-bye  my  Fancy  (Whitman),  609. 

Good  Ship  Union,  Voyage  of  the  (Holmes),  381. 

Grandmother's     Story     of    Bunker-Hill    Battle 

(Holmes),  389. 
Grant  (Whitman),  605. 
Grant,  On  a  Bust  of  General  (Lowell),  530. 
•  Great  truths  are  portions  of  the  soul  of  man ' 

(Lowell),  411. 

Greek's  Signal  Flame,  As  the  (Whitman),  607. 
Green  River  (Bryant),  4. 
Grisette,  La  (Holmes),  358. 

Haflz  (Emerson),  95. 

Hamatreya  (Emerson),  83. 

Hamish,  The  Revenge  of  (Lanier),  623. 

Hampton  Beach  (Whittier),  2G6. 

Hanging  of  the  Crane,  The  (Longfellow),  243. 

Harvard  Commemoration,  Ode  recited  at  the 
(Lowell),  490. 

Haunted  Palace,  The  (Poe),  46. 

Hawthorne  (Longfellow),  239. 

Heavenly  Death  Whispers  of  (Whitman),  588. 

Hebe  (Lowell),  428. 

Height  of  the  Ridiculous,  The  (Holmes),  35C. 

Helen,  To  (Poe),  41,  52. 

Heri,  Cras,  Hodie  (Emerson),  95. 

Heroes,  see,  in  the  Song  of  Myself  (Whitman),  641. 

Herons  of  Elmwood,  The  (Longfellow),  251. 

Hesperus,  The  Wreck  of  the  (Longfellow),  107. 

Hiawatha,  The  Song  of  (Longfellow),  158. 

Hills,  Among  the  (Whittier),  330. 

History,  Motto  to  the  Essay  on,  see  The  Informing 
Spirit  (Emerson),  73. 

Holidays  (Emerson),  73. 

Holmes,  To  Oliver  Wendell  (Whittier),  353. 

Holmes,  on  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday,  To  (Low- 
ell), 523. 

Hound,  The  (Lanier),  611. 

How  Love  looked  for  Hell  (Lanier),  626. 

How  the  Old  Horse  won  the  Bet  (Holmes),  392. 

Hudson,  The  (Holmes),  365. 

Hudson,  To  the  (Hellman),  365,  note. 

Humble-Bee,  The  (Emerson),  63. 

Hushed  be  the  camps  to-day  (Whitman),  585. 

Huskers,  The  (Whittier),  278. 

H.  W.  L.,  To  (Lowell),  496. 

Hymn  (Poe),  45. 

Hymn,  A  Sun-Day  (Holmes),  377. 

Hymn,  The  Bohemian  (Emerson),  96. 

Hymn  for  the  Celebration  of  Emancipation 
(Whittier),  313. 

Hymn  of  the  City  (Bryant),  17. 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


709 


Hymn  of  Trust  (Holmes),  377. 

Hymns  of  the  Marshes  (Lanier),  622,  628,  629. 

Hymn  to  Death  (Bryant),  7. 

Hymn  to  the  Night  (Longfellow),  105. 

'  I  ask  not  for  those  thoughts,  that  sudden  leap  ' 

(Lowell),  411. 
Tchabod  (Whittier),  282. 
I  dream'd  in  a  dream  (Whitman),  563. 
I  hear  America  singing  (Whitman),  560. 
I  hear  it  was  charged  against  me  (Whitman),  562. 
In  a  copy  of  Omar  Khayyam  (Lowell),  529. 
Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car,  An  (Lowell),  413. 
In  clouds  descending,  in  midnight  sleep,  see  Old 

War  Dreams  (Whitman),  586. 
Inconnue,  L'  (Holmes),  357. 
India,  Passage  to  (Whitman),  590. 
Indian-Summer  Reverie,  An  (Lowell),  424. 
Informing  Spirit,  The  (Emerson),  73. 
In  Memory  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  (Holmes), 

408. 

In  School-Days  (Whittier),  337. 
Inscription,  see  One's-self  I  sing  (Whitman),  587. 
Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood  (Bryant), 

3. 
Inscription  proposed  for  a  Soldiers'  and  Sailors' 

Monument  (Lowell),  524. 
International  Copyright  (Lowell),  524. 
In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown  (Longfellow), 

252. 

In  the  Twilight  (Lowell),  498. 
Invita  Minerva  (Holmes),  407. 
Iron  Gate,  The  (Holmes),  397. 
Ironsides,  Old  (Holmes),  355. 
I  saw  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing  (Whitman) 

562. 

I  saw  Old  General  at  Bay  (Whitman),  573. 
Israfel  (Poe),  41. 

'  I  thought  our  love  at  full,  but  I  did  err  '  (Low- 
ell), 430. 

Jacquerie,  Song  for  the  (Lanier),  611. 

James  Russell  Lowell  (Whittier),  353. 

James  Russell  Lowell,  1819-1891  (Holmes),  407. 

James  Russell  Lowell,  To  (Holmes),  402. 

J.  D.  R.  (Holmes),  380. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  In  Memory  of  (Holmes), 

408. 

Jonathan  to  John  (Lowell),  478. 
Joy,  Shipmate,  Joy  !  (Whitman),  596. 
Jugurtha  (Longfellow),  256. 
June  (Bryant),  14. 
T.  W. ,  To  (Emerson).  80. 

Keats  (Longfellow),  246. 

Keats  (Spingarn),  246,  note. 

Keats,  To  the  Spirit  of  (Lowell),  411. 

Killed  at  the  Ford  (Longfellow),  241. 

Killingworth,  The  Birds  of  (Longfellow),  2&5. 

Ladder  of  Saint  Augustine,  The  (Longfellow), 

155. 

La  Grisette  (Holmes),  358. 
Lake,  The  (Poe),  659 


Lakeside,  The  (Whittier),  281. 

Lakeside,  Summer  by  the  (Whittier),  286. 

La  Maison  d'Or  (Holmes),  404. 

Lament  for  Sister  Caroline,  Brother  Jonathan's 
(Holmes),  378. 

Last  Eve  of  Summer,  The  (Whittier),  353. 

Last  Invocation,  The  (Whitman),  595. 

Last  Leaf,  The  (Holmes),  358. 

Last  Walk  in  Autumn,  The  (Whittier),  292. 

Latest  Views  of  Mr.  Biglow  (Lowell),  484. 

Latter-Day  Warnings  (Holmes),  368. 

Laus  Deo  !  (Whittier),  312. 

Lending  a  Punch-Bowl,  On  (Holmes),  369. 

Lenore  (Poe),  43. 

L'Envoi :  The  Poet  and  his  Songs  (Longfellow), 
257. 

L'Envoi:  To  the  Muse  (Lowell),  463. 

Letter  from  Mr.  Ezekiel  Biglow  of  Jaalam  to  the 
Hon.  J.  T.  Buckingham,  A  (Lowell),  430. 

Lexington  (Whittier),  345. 

Life,  Fragments  on  (Emerson),  91. 

Lifetime,  A  (Bryant),  31. 

Ligeia,  Song  to  (Poe),  40. 

Light  of  Stars,  The  (Longfellow),  104. 

Lincoln,  The  Death  of  (Bryant),  31. 

L'Inconnue  (Holmes),  357. 

Lines  to  Ellen  (Emerson),  59. 

Little  People  of  the  Snow,  The  (Bryant),  24. 

Living  Temple,  The  (Holmes),  369. 

Locomotive  in  Winter,  To  a  (Whitman),  604. 

L.  of  G.'s  Purport  (Whitman),  609. 

Longings  for  Home,  see  O  Magnet-South  (Whit- 
man), 565. 

Long,  too  long  America  (Whitman),  578. 

Lords  of  Life,  The,  see  Experience,  (Emerson), 
77. 

Lost  Occasion,  The  (Whittier),  348. 

Lost  Youth,  My  (Longfellow),  210. 

Love  (Emerson),  91. 

Lowell,  James  Russell  (Whittier),  353. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  1819-1891  (Holmes),  407 

Lowell,  To  James  Russell  (Holmes),  402. 

Lyre  of  Anacreon,  The  (Holmes),  403. 

Magnet-South  (Whitman),  565. 
Maidenhood  (Longfellow),  112. 
Maison  d'Or,  La  (Holmes),  404. 
Mannahatta  (Whitman),  565. 
Marguerite  (Whittier),  336. 
Marion's  Men,  Song  of  (Bryant),  17. 
Marshes  of  Glynn,  The  (Lanier),  622. 
Marsh  Song  —  at  Sunset  (Lanier),  628. 
Masaccio  (Lowell),  465. 
Mason  and  Slidell  (Lowell),  473. 
Massachusetts  to  Virginia  (Whittier),  270. 
Master,  Our  (Whittfer),  325. 
Maud  Muller  (Whittier),  289. 
Meeting,  The  (Whittier),  327. 
Me  Imperturbe  (Whitman),  560. 
Memorial  Poems,  Three  (Lowell),  509. 
Memories  (Whittier),  265. 
Merlin  (Emerson),  81. 
Merops  (Emerson),  86. 
Merrimac,  The  (Whittier).  264. 


7io 


INDEt   OF  TITLES 


Mezzo  Cammin  (Longfellow),  113. 

Miles  Standish,  The  Courtship  of  (Longfellow), 

213. 

Milton  (Longfellow),  246. 
Miner,  The  (Lowell),  496. 
Minnisink,  Burial  of  the  (Longfellow),  103. 
Miracles  '.Whitman),  552. 
Mississippi  at  Midnight,  Sailing  the  (Whitman), 

Mocking  Bird,  The  (Lanier),  620. 

Molinos,  The  Three  Silences  of  (Longfellow),  253. 

Monna  Lisa  (Lowell),  528. 

Monument  Mountain  (Bryant),  a 

Morituri  Salutamus  (Longfellow),  248. 

Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race  (Bryant),  21. 

Mother  with  thy  equal  brood,  Thou  (Whitman), 

598. 

Mountain  and  the  Squirrel,  The  (Emerson),  73. 
Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  to  the  Editor  of  the  '  Atlantic 

Monthly '  (Lowell),  486. 
Muse,  To  the  (Lowell),  463. 
Music  (Emerson),  96. 
Musketaquid  (Emerson),  86. 
My  Annual  (Holmes),  383. 
My  Aunt  (Holmes),  357. 
My  Autumn  Walk  (Bryant),  30. 
My  Birthday  (Whittier),  338. 
My  Captain  !  (Whitman),  581. 
My  Garden  (Emerson),  100. 
My  Lost  Youth  (Longfellow),  210. 
My  Love  (Lowell),  410. 
'  My  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die  ' 

(Lowell),  411. 
My  Mother,  To  (Poe).  55. 
My  Playmate  (Whittier),  303. 
My  Psalm  (Whittier),  301. 
Myself  and  Mine  (Whitman),  567. 
My  71st  Year  (Whitman),  608. 
My  Springs  (Lanier),  612. 
Mystery,  A  (Whittier),  341. 
Mystic  Trumpeter,  The  (Whitman), 
My  Triumph  (Whittier),  337. 

Nature  (Emerson),  77,  87,  90,  94. 

Nature  (Longfellow),  252. 

Nature,  Art  and  (Longfellow),  104. 

Nature,  The  Worship  of  (Whittier),  327. 

Nature  and  Life,  Fragments  on  (Emerson),  90. 

Nature  in  Leasts  (Emerson),  95. 

Nautilus,  The  Chambered  (Holmesl,  368. 

Nearing  the  Snow-Line  (Holmes),  386. 

Night  (Longfellow),  257. 

Night,  Hymn  to  the  (Longfellow),  105. 

Night  and  Day  (Lanier),  611. 

Nightingale  in  the  Study,  The  (Lowell),  497. 

Night  in  June  (Emerson),  91. 

Night  on  the  Prairies  (Whitman),  5G4. 

Night-Songs,  Wanderer's  (Longfellow),  149. 

Nobler  Lover,  The  (Lowell),  528. 

Noiseless  patient  spider,  A  (Whitman),  590. 

Noon,  see  Summer  by  the  Lakeside  (Whittier), 

286. 

Northman  (Emerson),  94. 
Norton,  To  Charles  Eliot  (Lowell),  500. 


Not  the  Pilot  (Whitman),  587. 
Nuremberg  (Longfellow),  116. 


»),  881. 


O  Captain!  my  Cap  tain!  (Whit 

October  (Bryant),  14. 

Ode  for  the  Fourth  of  July,  An  (Lowell),  518. 

Ode,  inscribed  to  W.  H.  Channing  (Emarson),  80. 

Ode  read  at  the  One  Hundredth  Anniversary  ol 

the  Fight  at  Concord  Bridge  (Lowell),  509. 
Ode   recited   at   the   Harvard   Commemoration 

(Lowell),  490. 
Ode  sung  in  the  Town  Hall,  Concord  (Emerson), 

88. 

Ode  to  Beauty  (Emerson),  76. 
'  O  fairest  of  the  rural  maids '  (Bryant),  9. 
Of  that  blithe  throat  of  thine  (Whitman),  606. 
Old  Age's  Ship  and  Crafty  Death's  (Whitman), 

608. 

Old  Age,  Thanks  in  (Whitman),  608. 
Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,  The  (Longfellow),  120. 
Old  General  at  Bay  (Whitman),  573. 
Old  Ironsides  (Holmes),  355. 
Old  Man  Dreams,  The  (Holmes),  366. 
Old  Temeraire,  Turner's  (Lowell),  530. 
Old-time  Sea-fight,  An,  see,  in  the  Song  of  Myself 

(Whitman),  542. 

Old  War-Dreams  (Whitman),  586. 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  To  (Whittier),  353. 
O  Magnet-South  (Whitman),  565. 
Omar  Khayyam,  In  a  Copy  of  (Lowell),  529. 
'  O  moonlight  deep  and  tender  '  (Lowell),  412. 
'  O  mother  of  a  mighty  race '  (Bryant),  21. 
On  a  Bust  of  General  Grant  (Lowell),  530. 
On  Board  the  '76  (Lowell),  489. 
'  One-Hoss  Shay,'  The  Wonderful  (Holmes),  369. 
One's-self  I  sing  (Whitman),  587. 
On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl  (Holmes),  359. 
On  the  Beach  at  Xight  (Whitman),  590. 
Open  Road,  Song  of  the  (Whitman),  547. 
Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry,  The  (Lowell),  465. 
O  Star  of  France  (Whitman),  5%. 
Others  may  praise  what  they  like  (Whitman), 

580. 

Our  Autocrat  (Whittier),  347. 
Our  Country's  Call  (Bryant),  24. 
4  Our  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower '  (Lowell), 

412. 

Our  Master  (Whittier),  325. 
Our  River  (Whittier),  304. 
Our  State  (Whittier),  281. 
Our  Yankee  Girls  (Holmes),  359. 
Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking  (Whitman), 

557. 
Out  of  the  rolling  ocean  the  crowd  (Whitman). 

578. 
Over  the  carnage  rose  prophetic  a  voioe  (Whit 

man),  578. 

Ox-Tamer,  The  (Whitman).  603. 
Oysterman,  The  Ballad  of  the  (Holmes),  355. 

Palinode  (Lowell),  462. 

Pan  (Emerson),  96. 

Parson  Turell's  Legacy  (Holmes),  372. 

Parting  Hymn  (Holmes),  379. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


711 


Passage  to  India  (Whitman),  590. 

Past,  The  (Bryant),  15. 

Paul  Revere's  Ride  (Longfellow),  ?33. 

Paumanok  starting  I  fly  like  a  bird,  From  (Whit- 
man), 571. 

Phillips,  Wendell  (Lowell),  414. 

Phoebe  (Lowell),  522. 

Pine-tree,  The  (Whittier),  275. 

Pioneers  !  O  Pioneers  !  (Whitman),  569. 

Pious  Editor's  Creed,  The  (Lowell),  435. 

Pipes  at  Lucknow,  The  (Whittier),  299. 

Planting  of  the  Apple-tree,  The  (Bryant),  22. 

Playmate,  My  (Whittier),  303. 

Poem  of  perfect  miracles,  see  Miracles  (Whit- 
man), 552. 

Poem  of  the  Road,  see  Song  of  the  Open  Road 
(Whitman),  547. 

Poem  of  Walt  Whitman,  see  Song  of  Myself  (Whit- 
man), 523. 

Poet  (Emerson),  94. 

Poet,  The  (Bryant),  29. 

Poet  and  his  Songs,  The  (Longfellow),  257. 

Poet  and  the  Children,  The  (Whittier),  350. 

Poet  and  the  Poetic  Gift,  Fragments  on  the  (Em- 
erson), 92. 

Poetry,  The  Spirit  of  (Longfellow),  102. 

Poets,  The  (Longfellow),  252. 

Poets  to  come  (Whitman),  560. 

Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day,  The  (Whittier).  285. 

Possibilities  (Longfellow),  257. 

Prairie-grass  dividing,  The  (Whitman),  563. 

Prairies,  The  (Bryant),  18. 

Prairies,  Night  on  the  (Whitman),  564. 

Prairie  Sunset,  A  (Whitman),  608. 

Prayer,  Andrew  Rykman's  (Whittier),  307. 

Prayer  of  Agassiz,  The  (Whittier),  342. 

Prayer  of  Columbus  (Whitman),  601. 

Pregnant  Comment,  The  (Lowell),  528. 

Present  Crisis,  The  (Lowell),  421. 

Problem,  The  (Emerson),  64. 

Problem,  The  (Whittier),  346. 

Proem  (Whittier),  280. 

Programme  (Holmes),  388. 

Prologue,  Songs  in  Many  Keys  (Holmes),  378. 

Psalm,  My  (Whittier),  301. 

Psalm  of  Life,  A  (Longfellow),  104. 

Psalm  of  the  West,  From  the  (Lanier),  617. 

Punch-Bowl,  On  Lending  a  (Holmes),  359. 

Purport,  L.  of  G.'s  (Whitman),  609. 

Quatrains  and  Translations  (Emerson),  94. 
Queen  Mercedes,  Death  of  (Lowell),  522. 
Quicksand  Years  (Whitman),  580. 

Rain,  The  Voice  of  the  (Whitman),  607. 
Rainy  Day,  The  (Longfellow),  111. 
Randolph  of  Roanoke  (Whittier),  260. 
Raven,  The  (Poe),  48. 
Reconciliation  (Whitman),  586. 
Recorders  ages  hence  (Whitman),  561. 
Rendition,  The  (Whittier),  290. 
Resignation  (Longfellow),  149. 
Response  (Whittier),  346. 
Return  of  Spring,  The  (Longfellow),  103. 


Return  of  the  Witches,  The  (Holmes),  405. 

Revenge  of  Hamish,  The  (Lanier),  623. 

Rex  (Emerson),  92. 

Rhodora,  The  (Emerson),  61. 

Rhoecus  (Lowell),  415. 

River,  The  (Emerson),  58. 

Rivennouth,  The  Wreck  of  (Whittier),  310. 

Robert  Burns  (Longfellow),  256. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  (Bryant),  23. 

Romance  (Poe),  40. 

Rounded  World,  The,  see  Nature  (Emerson),  77. 

Rykman's  Prayer,  Andrew  (Whittier),  307. 

Saadi  (Emerson),  74. 

Sacrifice  (Emerson),  95. 

Sailing  the  Mississippi  at  Midnight  (Whitman) 

686. 

Saint  Augustine,  The  Ladder  of  (Longfellow),  135. 
Samuel  J.  Tilden  (Whittier),  352. 
San  Bias,  The  Bells  of  (Longfellow),  258. 
Santa  Filomena  (Longfellow),  212. 
Saturday  Club,  At  the  (Holmes),  399. 
School-Days,  In  (Whittier),  337. 
Science,  Sonnet  to  (Poe),  40. 
Scottish  Border  (Lowell),  508. 
Sea  Dream,  A  (Whittier),  343. 
Seashore  (Emerson),  89. 
Seaweed  (Longfellow),  116. 
Second  Letter  from  B.  Sawin,  Esq.,  A  (Lowell), 

436. 

Secret,  The  (Lowell),  528. 

Serenade,  from  The  Spanish  Student  (Longfel- 
low), 111. 

Seventieth  Birthday,  Bryant's  (Holmes),  382. 
Seventieth  Birthday,  For  Whittier's  (Holmes), 

394. 
Seventy-fifth    Birthday,    To    Holmes,    on    his 

(Lowell),  523. 
Seventy-fifth    Birthday,   To    Whittier,    on    his 

(Lowell),  523. 

71st  Year,  My  (Whitman),  608. 
Seward,  To  William  H.  (Whittier),  303. 
Shadows,  The  (Holmes),  398. 
Shakespeare  (Emerson),  95. 
Shakespeare  (Longfellow),  245. 
She  came  and  went  (Lowell),  429. 
Shelley,  After  a  Lecture  on  (Holmes),  364. 
Shepherd  of  King  Admetus,  The  (Lowell),  412. 
Shoemakers,  The  (Whittier),  273. 
Shut  not  your  doors  (Whitman),  579. 
Sight  in  Camp  in  the  Daybreak,  A  (Whitman),  571 
Silence,  Sonnet  (Poe),  47. 
Silent  Melody,  The  (Holmes),  396. 
Singer  in  the  Prison,  The  (Whitman),  588. 
Singing  Leaves,  The  (Lowell),  459. 
Sisters,  The  (Whittier),  339. 
Sixty-eighth  Birthday  (Lowell),  524. 
Skeleton  in  Armor,  The  (Longfellow),  108. 
Skipper  Ireson's  Ride  (Whittier),  296. 
Slave's  Dream,  The  (Longfellow),  113. 
Sleeper,  The  (Poe),  43. 
Small  the  theme  of  my  chant,  see  One's-self  I 

sing  (Whitman),  587. 
Snow-Bound  (Whittier),  31fl. 


712 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Snow-Line,  Nearing  the  (Holmes),  386. 

Snow-Storm,  The  (Emerson),  72. 

Soldiers'  and  Sailors'    Monument,    Inscription 

proposed  for  a  (Lowell),  524. 
Song  —  at  Sunset  (Lanier),  628. 
Song  for  '  The  Jacquerie '  (Lanier),  611. 
Song  from  Al  Aaraaf  (Poe),  39. 
Song  of  Hiawatha,  The  (Longfellow),  158. 
Song  of  Marion's  Men  (Bryant),  17. 
Song  of  Myself,  From  the  (Whitman),  523. 
Song  of  the  Chattahoochee  (Lanier),  621. 
Song  of  the  Open  Road  (Whitman),  547. 
Song :  '  O  moonlight  deep  and  tender '  (Lowell), 

412. 

Songs  in  Many  Keys,  Prologue  (Holmes),  378. 
Songs  of  Labor,  Dedication  (Whittier),  282. 
£k>ng :  '  Stay,  stay  at  home '  (Longfellow),  255. 
Sonnet— Scottish  Border  (Lowell),  508. 
Sonnet  —  Silence  (Poe),  47. 
Sonnets  on  Columbus  (Lanier),  617. 
Sonnet  —  To  Science  (Poe),  40. 
Sonnet  to  Zante  (Poe),  46. 
Sound  of  the  Sea,  The  (Longfellow),  246. 
Spanish  Student,  Serenade  from  the  (Longfellow), 

111. 

Sphinx,  The  (Emerson),  71. 
Spider,  A  noiseless  patient  (Whitman),  590. 
Spirit  of  Poetry,  The  (Longfellow),  102. 
Spirit  that  formed  this  scene  (Whitman),  605. 
Spring,  The  Return  of  (Longfellow),  103. 
Stanzas,  see  Expostulation  (Whittier),  262. 
Stanzas  on  Freedom  (Lowell),  414. 
Star  of  France  (Whitman),  596. 
Statesman's  Secret,  The  (Holmes),  362. 
Stedman,  see  To  E.  C.  S.  (Whittier),  352. 
Stethoscope  Song,  The  (Holmes),  360. 
Stirrup-Cup,  The  (Lanier),  621. 
Stonewall  Jackson,  The  Dying  Words  of  (Lanier), 

611. 

Storm  on  Lake  Asquam  (Whittier),  349. 
Summer  by  the  Lakeside  (Whittier),  286. 
Sun-Day  Hymn,  A  (Holmes),  377. 
Sun-down  Poem,  see  Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry 

(Whitman),  553. 
Sunrise  (Lanier),  629. 
Sunset  (Lanier),  628. 
Sunset  on  the  Bearcamp  (Whittier),  344. 
Sunthin'  in  the  Pastoral  Line  (Lowell),  480. 
Sweet  Fern  (Whittier),  351. 
Symphony,  The  (Lanier),  612. 

Tamerlane  (Poe),  36. 

Tampa  Robins  (Lanier),  620. 

Tarrytown,  In  the  Churchyard  at  (Longfellow), 
252. 

Taylor,  To  Bayard  (Lanier),  627. 

Tears  (Whitman),  587. 

Telepathy  (Lowell),  528. 

Telling  the  Bees  (Whittier),  300. 

Terminus  (Emerson),  101. 

Thanatopsis  (Bryant),  1. 

Thanks  in  Old  Age  (Whitman),  608. 

•  There  is  no  great  and  no  small,'  see  The  Inform- 
ing Spirit  (Emerson),  73. 


There  was  a  child  went  forth  (Whitman),  532. 
Thick-sprinkled  Bunting  (Whitman),  580. 
Thine  Eyes  still  shined  (Emerson),  60. 
Thought  (Emerson),  58. 
Thou  Mother  with  thy  equal  brood  (Whitman". 

598. 

Three  Bells,  The  (Whittier),  340. 
Three  Friends  of  Mine  (Longfellow),  246. 
Three  Memorial  Poems  (Lowell),  509. 
Three  Silences  of  Molinos,  The  (Longfellow),  26:j. 
Threnody  (Emerson),  77. 

Tide  Rises,  the  Tide  Falls,  The  (Longfellow),  256. 
Tilden,  Samuel  J.  (Whittier),  302. 
Titmouse,  The  (Emerson),  96. 

To (Poe),  41. 

To (Poe),  39. 

To (Whittier),  293,  note. 

To  a  Certain  Civilian  (Whitman),  579. 

To  a  Locomotive  in  Winter  (Whitman),  604. 

To  an  English  Friend  (Holmes),  365. 

To  an  Insect  (Holmes),  356. 

To  a  Waterfowl  (Bryant),  3. 

To  Bayard  Taylor  (Lanier),  627. 

To  Beethoven  (Lanier),  C19. 

To  Charles  Eliot  Norton  (Lowell),  500. 

To  E.  C.  S.  (Whittier),  352. 

To  Ellen  (Emerson),  59. 

To  Ellen,  Lines  (Emerson),  59. 

To  Ellen  at  the  South  (Emerson),  59. 

To  F (Poe),  46. 

To  F s  S.  O d  (Poe),  46. 

To  Foreign  Lands  (Whitman),  604. 

To  Helen  (Poe),  41,  52. 

To  Holmes  on  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday  (Lowe.!). 

523. 

To  H.  W.  L.  (Lowell),  496. 
To  James  Russell  Lowell  (Holmes),  402. 
To  J.  W.  (Emerson),  80. 

To  Mary,  see  To  F (Poe),  46. 

To  My  Mother  (Poe),  55. 

To  My  Readers  (Holmes),  380. 

To  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (Whittier),  353. 

To  One  Departed,  see  To  F (Poe),  46. 

To  One  in  Paradise  (Poe),  45. 

To  One  shortly  to  die  (Whitman),  564. 

Too  Young  for  Love  (Holmes),  404. 

To  Science,  Sonnet  (Poe),  40. 

To  the  Dandelion  (Lowell),  417. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Mr.  Hos  ea 

Biglow  (Lowell),  486. 
To  the  Fringed  Gentian  (Bryant),  16. 
To  the  Man-of- War-Bird  (Whitman),  603. 
To  the  Muse  (Lowell),  463. 
To  the  Spirit  of  Keats  (Lowell),  411. 
To  those  who  've  fail'd  (Whitman),  607. 
To  W.  H.  Channing.  Ode  (Emerson),  80. 
To  Whittier,  on  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday  (L-iw- 

ell).  523. 

To  William  H.  Seward  (Whittier),  303. 
To  William  Lloyd  Garrison  (Whittier),  260. 
To  Zante,  Sonnet  (Poe),  46. 
Trailing  Arbutus,  The  (Whittier),  347. 
Translations,  Quatrains  and  (Emerson),  94. 
Triumph,  My  (Whittier),  337. 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


7 '3 


Turell's  Legacy,  Parson  (Holmes),  372. 
Turner's  Old  Temeraire  (Lowell),  530. 
Twilight,  In  the  (Lowell),  498. 
Two  Angels,  The  (Longfellow),  157. 
Two  Rivers  (Emerson),  87. 
Two  Streams,  The  (Holmes),  376. 

Ulalume  (Poe),  51. 

Under  the  Old  Elm  (Lowell),  512. 

Under  the  Violets  (Holmes),  377. 

Unexpress'd,  The  (Whitman),  609. 

Union  and  Liberty  (Holmes),  379. 

Unity  (Whittier),  351. 

Uriel  (Emerson),  64. 

Valley  of  Unrest,  The  (Poe),  44. 

Vanishers,  The  (Whittier),  311. 

Vaudois  Teacher,  The  (Whittier),  259. 

Venice  (Longfellow),  253. 

Veritas  (Holmes),  396. 

Victor  and  Vanquished  (Longfellow),  253. 

Vigil  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night  (Whit- 
man), 673. 

Village  Blacksmith,  The  (Longfellow),  108. 

Virginia  Slave-Mother,  The  Farewell  of  a  (Whit- 
tier), 263 

Virginia— The  West  (Whitman),  598. 

Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  The  (Lowell),  453. 

Voiceless,  The  (Holmes),  373. 

Voice  of  the  Rain,  The  (Whitman),  607. 

Voluntaries  (Emerson),  99. 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union  (Holmes),  381. 

Waiting,  The  (Whittier),  305. 

Waldeinsamkeit  (Emerson),  90. 

Walt  Whitman,  see  Song  of  Myself  (Whitman), 

623. 

Wanderer's  Night-Songs  (Longfellow),  149. 
Wapentake  (Longfellow),  253. 
Wardea  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  The  (Longfellow), 

156. 

War-Dreams,  Old  (Whitman),  586. 
Washers  of  the  Shroud,  The  (Lowell),  469. 
Watchers,  The  (Whittier),  306. 
Waterfowl,  To  a  (Bryant),  3. 
Waving  of  the  Corn,  The  (Lanier),  617. 
Weariness  (Longfellow),  239. 
Webster  (Emerson),  61. 


Webster,  Birthday  of  Daniel  (Holmes),  366. 

Wendell  Phillips  (Lowell),  414. 

Wentworth,  Amy  (Whittier),  304. 

What  best  I  see  in  thee  (Whitman),  605. 

What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks  (Lowell),  433. 

When  I  heard  at  the  close  of  the  day  (Whitman), 
562. 

When  I  heard  'thelearn'd  astronomer  (Whitman), 
579. 

When  I  peruse  the  conquered  Fame  (Whitman), 
563. 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd  (Whit- 
man), 581. 

When  the  full-grown  poet  came  (Whitman),  603. 

Whispers  of  Heavenly  Death  (Whitman),  588. 

Whittier,  In  Memory  of  John  Greenleaf  (Holmes), 
408. 

Whittier,  on  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday,  To 
(Lowell),  523. 

Whittier's  Seventieth  Birthday,  For  (Holmes). 
394. 

William  H.  Seward,  To  (Whittier),  303. 

William  Lloyd  Garrison,  To  (Whittier),  260. 

Wind-Harp,  The  (Lowell),  462. 

Winter  Piece,  A  (Bryant),  5. 

With  husky-haughty  lips,  O  Sea  (Whitman),  606. 

Without  and  Within  (Lowell),  461. 

Wonderful '  One-Hoss  Shay,'  The  (Holmes),  369. 

Woodnotes  I  (Emerson),  66. 

Woodnotes  II  (Emerson),  67. 

Word  out  of  the  sea,  A,  see  Out  of  the  cradle  end- 
lessly rocking  (Whitman),  557. 

Wordsworth  (Whittier),  283. 

Wordsworth,  After  a  Lecture  on  (Holmes),  363. 

World-Soul,  The  (Emerson),  82. 

Worship  of  Nature,  The  (Whittier),  327. 

Wound-Dresser,  The  (Whitman),  575. 

Wreck  of  Rivermouth,  The  (Whittier),  310. 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The  (Longfellow),  107. 

Written  at  Rome  (Emerson),  60. 

Written  in  a  Volume  of  Goethe  (Emerson),  65. 

Written  in  Naples  (Emerson),  60. 

Yankee  Girls,  Our  (Holmes),  359. 

Yellow  Violet,  The  (Bryant),  2. 

Youth,  Day,  Old  Age  and  Night  (Whitman),  60C. 

Zante,  Sonnet  to  (Poe),  46. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  UOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


JAN  2  4  1947 


DEC 


.PS 

581     Page  - 
P14     The   chief 


cop«2     Aaericen  poets, 


PS 

581 

P14 

oop»2 


i 

CALIFWNIA, 

SRARY, 

S.  CALIF. 


